

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




















I 




RYLE’S OPEN GATE 



SUSAN TEACKLE MOORE 

l* 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
Htijersibe Camfcri&ce 

1891 


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Copyright, 1891, 

By SUSAN TEACKLE MOORE. 
All rights reserved . 


TP 


The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Ccw 


TO THE 

MEMORY OF MY FRIEND, 

JOHN ELIOT BOWEN. 


% 




HOW IT ALL HAPPENED. 


It was in October of last year that Robin 
and I planned a ramble through the south 
side of Long Island. Our plan took us to 
the uttermost point eastward ; our buck- 
board got no farther than Craddock. For, 
within a mile of that village, a furious storm 
overtook us and we were glad to run under 
cover out of the rain. 

Our shelter proved to be a ruined woodshed 
that was part of an old homestead, a habita- 
tion so old, and withal so singularly home- 
like, as to assure me at once of its being a 
survival of the antiquities of this quaint 
old place. 

Robin is my boy. He has barely touched 
his eleventh year, but he is not the less on 
that account to be considered his mother’s 
caretaker, fellow-helper, confidential friend. 


6 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


Our lives are bounded by narrow limits ; 
there are but two of us, — Robin and I. 

It was while we sat there under the shed, 
staring at the downpour, and nerving our- 
selves to some daring deed, that a whimsical 
thought came to me, — “ A perfect summer 
home for Robin and me next year ! ” 

As we gazed and romanced, a figure 
thatched in tarpaulins crossed our vision, 
a fisherman probably, a man beyond doubt. 
He halted, and gave us a prolonged stare. 
Over one shoulder he had swung a clam 
rake, from which dangled a disreputable eel- 
basket ; the water in his hat brim went 
round and round, and then overflowed in 
spurts, like a neglected roof-gutter. 

I bespoke him civilly, and inquired the 
way to some inn for the night. He did not 
answer at once, but darted from under his 
shaggy brows a shrewd, calculating glance. 

“Ye kin bide right ’ere whar ye be, if ye 
like,” he said at last. “ That there house 
belongs to me, it do, every stitch an’ stiver 
of it.” 


HOW IT ALL HAPPENED . 7 

“ And you live in it yourself ? ” Robin 
asked. 

“ I do that, sonny ; leastways I lives in 
it winters. My bunk ’s over the kitching ; 
ye kin see tke cbimbleys from wbar ye set.” 

Robin looked doubtful, but held his 
peace. 

“ I ’ll build ye up a fire in the keepin’ 
room in two shakes — a reg’lar old roarer. 
Ye ’re mortial wet, . . . an’ the rain don’t 
seem noways o’ lettin’ up,” he added art- 
fully. 

“ What think you, Robin ? ” said I, ap- 
pealing to my small adviser. Before he 
could answer, the man continued : — 

“ I ain’t no slouch of a cook nuther, ye 
kin bet. Cook ye up a supper that ’ll make 
yer — make yer — Well ! fix it to suit yer- 
selves,” — with the effect of washing his 
hands of the matter, — “ but I ’m ready to 
bet my nex’ haul o’ mack’rel agin a dead 
moss-bunker the rain ain’t a-goin’ to hold 
up this side o’ mornin’.” 

“ How ’d we sleep ? ” put in the boy. 


8 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ Sleep ? House is chuck full o’ feather- 
beds, reg’lar old seven sleepers, an’ there ’s 
a mort o’ tack-me-downs up garret.” 

“ Tack-me-downs ? ” queried my boy. 

“ Yap ; an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to gouge no fancy 
price out’n nairy one o’ ye, nuther, that ’s 
gospel. I ’m a-goin’ to charge ye seventy- 
five cents apiece, an’ the hoss a quarter. 
That ’s vittles an’ drink an’ lodgin’, ye see, 
an’ firewood ain’t a-goin’ to cost ye nawthin’. 
Come in ; come inside an’ see fur yerselves.” 

Tying our horse, we furled our useless 
umbrella, and made a rush for the house, the 
old sea-dog sauntering after. He unlocked 
the Dutch door and gave us entrance. A 
short look at the possibilities of the interior 
and a long one out of the window decided 
us. Yes, we would stay, and gladly. 

A glorious, rollicking wood-fire was soon 
laughing on the hearth, and shouting at the 
top of its voice up the chimney. Later, we 
strayed over the house and up to the very 
garret, where we discovered the boasted 
“ tack-me-downs,” which proved to be the 


nOW IT ALL HAPPENED. 


9 


old-fashioned, country-made quilt. Washing 
our faces in the ice-water from the well, with 
just one meek little lunch napkin for towel, 
which was jealously spread out to dry for 
to-morrow’s use, we evolved a fresh toilet 
from one collar and two handkerchiefs, and 
were ready for supper. 

I have been young and am now — other- 
wise, but never before nor since do I remem- 
ber such a supper. We ate for the simple 
joy of eating ; our appetites on their feather 
edge, and the Bohemian dash to everything 
the spice we craved. 

We had roast oysters (I am hungry now 
as I think of them) ; fried fish that might 
be eels (perish the thought), but we swal- 
lowed them down ; scrambled potatoes, which 
our cook assured us were not fried ; eggs 
that were fried, and coffee. 

“ My name ’s Ryle,” he said, laying down 
a second tray of oysters, — “ Ryle Ryerson ; 
but my given name ’ll do you, I reckon. 
Them oyshters is right out o’ the bay, real 
out ’n’ out Blue P’ints, an’ no back talk.” 


10 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


He opened the refractory ones for us with 
the broken blade of his jackknife, and was 
otherwise useful. 

Our supper being eaten, he cleared away 
the dishes, swept up the hearth with a tur- 
key wing, and mended the fire so well that 
the patch was really bigger than the original 
fabric. Then, setting one all-forlorn tallow 
candle in our midst, he remarked : — 

“ Ef there ’s anything more I kin do for 
ye, come outside an’ holler, I ain’t fur off ; ” 
and he closed the door. 

The storm raged all night and the next 
day. Robin and I were as happy as two 
chimney swallows. We chattered and twit- 
tered as we made believe keep house, confid- 
ing to each other with frequent bursts of 
delight that to-day was best of all. The 
very fireplace smacked of good cheer, and 
that charm which makes one wish to cuddle 
down between its open arms and rest. So 
much so that Robin, under this undefined 
influence, called it our “ Castle Cosy ; ” but 
to me it was a memory of my childhood, the 
ingle-side, the fireside of bygone times. 


HOW IT ALL HAPPENED. 11 

That evening we made our host a visit in 
his own quarters. The result was an agree- 
ment in due form to rent his house to us for 
the coming season, from May until October. 

When to-morrow arrived, Robin brought 
me a sad story. Our horse was stiff in 
both knees, and could hardly be coaxed out 
of the stable. 

“Must ha’ got chilled-like in his j’ints, 
a-standin’ out there in the wind,” quoth 
Ryle. “ You ’d orter blanketed him fust 
off ; ye mought ha’ knowed the beast was 
overhet, makin’ time agin the rain. All the 
way from Garden City, too.” 

He spoke with that latent scorn which is 
so essentially a masculine trait, an attitude 
that the mind of man permits itself toward 
the inferior sex when a woman attempts a 
thing beyond her enforced limitations. 

“We will get into the cars and go home, 
dear boy. It has cleared off beautifully,” 
I added sadly, for my heart sank with Rob- 
in’s. So home to the city — our ramble was 
ended. 


































































































































































. 































































CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Ingleside . 15 

II. Ryle 35 

III. Maggy’s Sister 56 

IY. The Little Schoolmistress ... 78 

V. My Friend, the Ghost . . . .92 

YI. Two Studies in Charcoal . . . ' 105 

VII. Andy . 120 

VIII. A Garden Party 129 

IX. An Afternoon Tea 147 

X. Ebenezer 162 

XI. Old Cronies 180 

XII. Buster 200 

XIII. A Friend of the Rector’s . . . 213 

XIV. September Skies 235 




































































































































. • 




























































t 



































RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


CHAPTER I. 

INGLESIDE. 

Ingleside is a lovely remnant of long- 
ago : low-roofed, with brooding eaves that 
shelter many a weary bird, many a crooning 
dove; bristling with chimneys that have 
been chapels of log-fire worshipers for gen- 
erations, — chimneys whose throats are mel- 
lowed and seasoned with forests of oak, 
pine, and chestnut, and whose lungs are as 
breathful and life-giving as the west wind. 

Its windows shine with good humor. The 
very Dutch doors can do nothing by halves, 
but with one mind together swing wide open 
with joyous greeting to every guest. 

The house has three gables, a resident 


16 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


ghost, and a pedigree. The household now 
numbers five souls, not counting the ghost. 
Robin and I are two ; then Nathan, our 
man of all work, the housemaid Mary (one 
time Robin’s nurse), and the cook, Keziah. 

The ghost — but the ghost can wait. 

As to the house itself, there is welcome, 
good fellowship, and good cheer in every 
seam and rinrple of its wholesome, homely 
countenance. 

No matter how wild, how uncanny, how 
uncivil the weather, our home is just then 
and always perfectly happy. The winter 
winds never visit it too roughly; the sun- 
beams are never unkind. Together they 
make a nimbus about its hoary head, and 
deepen the cool shadows of the clustering 
maples. 

“ Ryle ” says it was built “ more ’n a hun- 
dred years ago.” I don’t believe a word of 
it. It was never built ; it is simply a lovely 
dimple on the face of nature, a matchless 
lichen in tender, kindly tones. 

If its organic integrity is sustained by 


INGLES IDE. 


17 


sticks, stones, or stucco, I defy you to find 
them. Moss and ivy, honeysuckle and 
drooping vines, have made common cause, 
and woven a delicious tangle that holds the 
house forever bound. 

Wise men and wise women must have 
dwelt herein ; for, whatever their needs or 
prejudices, the symmetry and quaint beauty 
of its old-time appointments have never been 
disturbed. 

To begin, the ceilings are so low, and the 
wainscotings so high, that not one stenciled 
picture from the firelight can be lost upon 
them. The fireplaces are unfathomable 
mines of delight, they are so vast, so bounti- 
ful, of such gracious and goodly conditions. 
The backlogs are prodigious : the long ones 
come through the doorway endwise ; their 
cut and character being as unconventional 
as our pine-cone kindlings, so gnarled and 
knotty are they, so resinous and fragrant. 
The slender branches are best of all. 

Over the blaze hangs a hilarious kettle, 
which is kept within bounds by a staid and 


18 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


ancient crane, — a crone that is always on 
duty with her chatelaine of pot-hooks and 
hangers* She must be, for this is a busy, 
buzzy fireside of ours* 

The mantef jambs are very comer cup- 
boards, uncanny in their mysterious depths. 
To us they are the dearest crannies and tuck- 
away places in the world for the delicacies 
of our aesthetic housekeeping. One small 
griddle, the skillet, and a spidery gridiron 
are to be reckoned among these delicacies. 

Blustering nights and rainy days we are 
in the habit of making up select parties 
of two, — Robin and I. There is revelry 
within, and much wassail and feasting. 
When we have invited each other with due 
formality to our next banquet, — which takes 
place immediately, both having accepted 
with bows, — we put our heads together to 
plan the feast. 

“ We ’re not going to have anything di- 
gestible this time, mamma,” declares this 
small caterer ; “ we ’re going to have a real 
party. None of your roast apples dangling 


INGLES IDE. 19 

by strings, nor sweet potatoes under the 
backlog, nor doll-baby’s biscuits.” 

If tills is sarcasm, it is intentional, and I 
am distinctly snubbed ; for to such simples 
doth my disciplined body incline. 

“ How ’s Welsh rarebit ? ” I ask sweetly, 
— “ that ’s good and risky ; and clam frit- 
ters to begin with.” 

“ Immense ! Simply immense ! Hold up 
till I see if Nathan ’s back from the village 
to open the clams ; he is such an everlasting 
dawdle-cat.” 

While Robin has gone to see, I am haul- 
ing out the “ delicacies ” from their fireside 
fastnesses. “ Yes, Nathan is back. Nathan 
will open ’em right away. Nathan made 
bold to bring Master Robin a pint o’ pea- 
nuts — no offense intended — an’ would n’t 
Master Robin like a extry shovelful o’ coals 
out o’ the kitching fire ? Keziah ’s got 
more ’n a plenty. An’ ain’t there nothin’ 
else Nathan kin do for Master Robin ? ” 

All of which means that this consolidated 
humbug met Ryle at the blacksmith’s, and 


20 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


decided to stop for half a minute. He is 
really an hour and a half behind time, and 
he knows it. 

“ Good ! ” crows the boy ; “ good enough ! 
Hand ’em along, Nathan, and we ’ll start 
the taffy right away. Now, mamma, lovely, 
darling mamma, I ’ve thought up something 
just splendif.” 

“ If it has anything to do with cold 
chicken, I ’m not going to listen to you.” 

“Yes, it has something to do with cold 
chicken, and you are — going — to listen to 
— me. Bother to-morrow’s dinner ! Ham 
and eggs is a dinner for a king. Keziah 
says we sha’n’t have a scrap of that cold 
chicken to devil, anyhow, because the min- 
ister ’s coming. S’pose he is ! what ’s that 
got to do with it, I ’d like to know ! Where ’s 
the sense of stuffy cold chicken for dinner 
when there ’s hot ham and eggs in the 
house ? I begged and I begged her, and 
she just won’t. Bother Keziah ! ” 

Two arms are about my neck, and with 
them, for down-weight, a mouthful of argu- 
ments as sweet as convincing. 


INGLESIDE. 


21 


“ Now, mamma, won’t you go out to the 
kitchen and speak to her ? She ’s afraid of 
you. Such a dandy bed of coals, too ; it ’s 
a sin and a shame to waste ’em.” Which 
means that my boy will gladly burn his 
bonny face to a blister, if I will let him 
devil to-morrow’s drumsticks now, with lots 
of salt, and a dash of mustard, and the least 
speck of curry for style. 

Gay little supper parties ! Merry host 
and guest ! Not a wise mother, perhaps, — 
not wholesome doctrine, surely ; but ah ! the 
love and life and light of those hours, the 
sympathy and trust ! 

Do you know wherein lies the witchery, 
the enchantment, of your wood-fire ? Some 
other worshiper says it is the imprisoned 
sunshine of ages that we see in the blaze. 
Yes, and I may add that in their toils are 
caught the departing souls of dazzling sun- 
sets, caught and held fast until their day of 
resurrection. 

And what other romance and mystery are 
woven into it ? 


22 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


At twilight, when Nature holds her breath 
to listen to the echoes of the day, listen too, 
my fellow-worshiper, and you will hear the 
voices of birds that sang in these burn- 
ing boughs before you were born. These 
logs are brimful of liquid melody ; full of 
songs without words, vesper hymns, and noc- 
turnes ; teeming with Thanksgiving psalms 
and Christmas carols ; musical with joyous 
greetings and love songs. How the birds 
have poured their tender secrets, their pas- 
sion and their ecstasy, into the bosoms 
of these, their faithful friends — and ours ! 
The katydids and crickets have done honest 
work, too, in the orchestra, with their dance 
music, grace notes, and trills. Do we not 
find in these logs and boughs Nature’s pho- 
nographs ? 

As you sit listening and lingering, don’t 
you love to think that you believe in ghosts, 
and witches, and hobgoblins? Will you 
ever know again as thrilling a romance as 
Santa Claus? In the very deepest depths 
of your soul, you believe in him still. 


INGLESIDE. 


23 


There is no flaw in my title to Ingleside. 
I insist upon it, in spite of Ryle’s airs of 
ownership on pay-day and other days ; in 
spite of his ugly gleams and beetling brows. 
I insist upon it ; it is all mine. 

You know the story, of course, about old 
Ryle Ryerson. It tells how he bought this 
place of Somebody who vowed he would 
not live in it another night because it was 
haunted. Then that wary old fox made a 
bid for the property, and has been the envy 
and despair of all Craddock ever since. 

Say he did buy it, just for argument, one 
thing is certain — the resident ghost would 
be its chief charm to Ryle, for he very prop- 
erly judges himself equal to anybody’s ghost, 
living or dead. This one happened to be 
Somebody’s mother-in-law. 

Well, what did Ryle care for that ? It had 
been his priceless privilege to dispose of two 
of his own in his lifetime, and to oust them 
at crises when nothing less than an earth- 
quake or cyclone could be expected to move 
them. 


24 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


The particular Somebody may have ob- 
jected to the presiding ghostly genius of his 
home ; may have been so lost to shame as 
to consider the ghost his natural enemy : but 
then all the same Somebody was a man and 
a brother, for he created an atmosphere, 
without and within, as subtle as it is satis- 
fying, — an atmosphere that will never de- 
part till this dear old house is gathered to 
its — woodpile. 

Such a home as this is to a true artist 
what an old violin is to a musician. 

Its furnishings alone are a fair education 
in aesthetics. Our rector calls it a tender 
romance ; a pastoral poem ; a classic. Our 
rector is entitled to a hearing, for he studies 
it and loves it well. His happiest holiday 
is to share its modest good cheer, its juicy 
bones and dainty crusts. 

The children at the Seaside Home near 
by are of the rector’s mind, but in fewer 
syllables. To them it is a castle, — a castle 
in a fairy tale, with a good fairy, a beautiful 
young prince, an old witch (we beg Keziah’s 


INGLE SIDE. 25 

pardon), and bags and bags of money in 
these hinged and scutcheoned chests. 

But we have other neighbors. The Gold- 
barrs drive in at four o’clock, to leave cards, 
— too near train time, but they will risk it. 
Neighborly civilities are not to be omitted. 
Better call to-day and have done with it. 

Bang hears them coming, and his emotions 
are too many for him. He stands on three 
legs and talks with both ears. When Robin 
is away, Bang is a host in himself. 

“ Down, you rascal ! quiet, sir ! charge ! ” 

The dog takes me literally. He is down 
at the gate in two bounds, offers his best 
bows, and assumes charge of the company. 

The equipage is truly overwhelming. The 
harness is bewildering in its clatter ; it in- 
spires the horses. They pick up their well- 
bred feet accordingly, and are high and 
mighty. The coachman is pompous and the 
footman sublime. 

The Mistress is “ at home,” for there she 
sits at half-length in a queer old bamboo 
armchair under the big chestnut. As she 


26 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


rises and comes forward to add her greeting 
to Bang’s, she is aware that the ladies of the 
house of Goldbarr are not unmindful of the 
cut of her calico gown, nor yet indifferent 
to the pale lavender ribbons. “ They are a 
part of the atmosphere of the house,” they 
are kind enough to say. 

Who could be dull or weary, moody or 
cynical, in a crisp calico gown with lavender 
ribbons ? — always remembering the bamboo 
chair as a setting, and the lengthening 
shadows of the low-spreading chestnut. 

Bang opens the wire doors with his nose, 
and leads the way into the house. 

“ What an interior ! What a lesson in 
mediaeval art ! What a relic of antiquity ! 
Positively a picture by Burne Jones.” 

A young disciple of the new school, a 
charming girl who comes with the party, 
says trippingly, “ It is a symphony in Pom- 
peiian reds, accentuated with old blues and 
sketchy furniture.” If this is really so, I 
should let go the train of my precious calico 
that is so thriftily in hand, and trail it in 


INGLESIDE. 


27 


the dust. Down it goes in a reckless sweep, 
while Bang scrambles over and under it, and 
makes a fringe of the ruffle. 

“ What ravishing old mahogany ! What 
a scrap of a piano ! What a huge fireplace ! 
Don’t the ashes make a hurricane of work 
for the servants, blowing over everything ? 
And who in the name of goodness dusts all 
this china on the wall? Was it your own 
fad to hang the soup tureen and dishes up 
there ? How awfully cunning ! Corner cup- 
boards with glass doors is as far as we have 
dared. And is the rest of the house as 
fascinating ? And did you get it all out of 
your own head ? What a — what an artist 
you are ! Nothing after all like old-fashioned 
things and old-fashioned comfort.” 

Which is very interesting, not to say 
naive. As if anything or anybody of the 
house of Goldbarr could be old or worn, or 
faded or a relic ; the Goldbarrs, who are as 
brand-new and brilliant as a gold double- 
eagle, fresh from the mint. 

The Ingot coach-and-four, with the Judge 


28 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


and Mrs. Ingot inside, now dashes through 
the gateway, and swirls around our bit of 
lawn, just as the Goldbarrs are taking leave, 
protesting, 44 There goes the whistle, and 
we ’re frightfully late. We ’ve had a charm- 
ing call ; perfectly charming. We ’re 4 at 
home ’ Monday afternoons — tea at five 
o’clock ; and 4 au re voir.’ ” And they are 
gone, leaving a train of fair words and 
splendor that lingers with us full many a 
day to come. 

The Ingot chariot stops the way. The 
calico gown and lavender ribbons arise and 
shine again. 

“ What a love of a cottage ! How per- 
fectly sweet ! What a precious petunia bed ! 
My dear, those are petunias, if you please,” 
— turning upon her husband with the air of 
holding him personally responsible for them, 
— 44 and that wretched Martin of ours vows 
and declares petunias can’t be made to grow 
on the south side of Long Island ; fancy ! 
But you should hear the rector go on about 
this place. He raves over it ; perfectly 
raves.” 


JNGLESIDE. 


29 

“ Mr. Armstrong is very kind,” I begin, 
but she rattles on. 

“Worthy man, the rector, excellent crea- 
ture. Liberal, progressive, a bit eccentric, 
and that sort of thing, but he does n’t bore 
one ; that ’s something.” 

“ No, he does n’t bore one,” I assent 
primly ; “ he is extremely interesting ; he is 
immensely worth while ; ” but Mrs. Ingot 
does not hear me. 

“Fairly good reader, Mr. Armstrong, and 
short sermons, — there ’s where he shows 
his sense,” she continues. 

“ Oh ! ” I say. 

“ Good idea when you don’t cut the ser- 
vice — these fifteen minute sermons. Gives 
you just time to rest the horses nicely. 
Why, Judge Ingot has actually taken to 
coming to church himself ; fancy ! ” 

Mrs. Ingot is surprised that a man of the 
rector’s talents can afford to bury himself in 
such a place as Craddock. She is equally 
surprised that city “ help ” can be induced 
to do without set-tubs and running water. 


30 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


Mine must be angels. She is surprised at a 
number of other things, and is good enough 
to say so. 

The J udge says nothing. He has his own 
opinion of this sort of rat-trap, rookery, 
ramshackle, — an opinion that is free to the 
public later in the day. “The house is 
damp, doleful, deathly, ill-drained, ill-condi- 
tioned, radically wrong. How any white 
woman with a mind, with a grain of com- 
mon sense, can choose such a hole, and be 
willing to live in it ” — 

My friend, don’t believe him. Hear my 
side of it. That a man with a mind should 
be insensible to the rest and peace and bless- 
ing of this atmosphere is like being born 
color-blind, or destitute of the instinct of 
music. He is an anomaly. We are sorry 
for him. 

Come ! let us stop abusing the neighbors, 
and talk about pleasant things ; look at my 
piano, for instance. 

I like to think the sensitive Somebody 
left it to me as a legacy, along with the rest 


INGLESIDE . 


31 


of my rights and title. I found it covered 
and locked, key missing. 44 Did n’t never 
have no key into it,” Ryle explained. The 
little instrument had slept the sleep of the for- 
gotten through all the chances and changes 
of intervening years until I, the elect lady, 
awakened it. It is indeed a 44 scrap ” of 
a piano. With its back up it is not so 
very much bigger than an open snuff-box ; 
but it serves. Robin’s banjo keeps it in 
good humor, it is so attentive and deferen- 
tial. Our sea fogs are trying to both their 
tempers and timbres ; but on the whole 
their spirits have not been so dampened as 
to make them other than important mem- 
bers of the family. 

Then there is our writing-table, con- 
vivial and beguiling ; its orderly disorder as 
artistic as it is charming. We have pulled 
it so close to the low window-seat that Robin 
has to climb over to reach his own place by 
my side. 

The tea-table in the opposite window is 
equally convivial. It is the dearest joy of 


32 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


our hearts. Its proper place is in the other 
room, of course, — a misty, moisty, dingy 
room in close communion with the kitchen, 
— a place adapted to funeral baked-meats, 
and other unwholesome arrangements. 

Our merry hand-to-hand will none of 
these heresies. It has turned a cold shoulder 
to the shadows, and faces the light. 

Like my little lad, this table has the gift 
of friendship. It is forever enlarging its 
borders to embrace the toilworn and hungry : 
the old doctor, who is on his way to Mora- 
tika — “a serious case — a consultation, my 
dear madam, and can stop only for a bite : ” 
the little schoolmistress at recess, who will 
truly have to eat and run, and is so sorry, 
so ashamed, so awfully obliged : the young 
minister, who has given the blessed morning 
to his sermon ; who has been on the rack 
and under the screws of his “ Fourthly ” till 
his head is a buzz-saw ; whose thinking ap- 
paratus has run down, ma’am, and who has 
himself run down to me to have it wound up 
again ; who is at his last gasp for a breath 


INGLESIDE. 33 

of fresh air, and is so surprised to meet the 
schoolmistress ! 

But, we have other guests — toilers of 
another cast. Knights-errant are they in a 
pathetic sense, and knights also of my round 
table, when on fair days we spread it under 
the willows. The organ man with the mon- 
key, specially the monkey ; the patent fur- 
niture-polish man ; the banana man ; the old 
woman with knitted washrags and tomato 
pincushions to sell ; the barefoot boy with 
the matches, — these come from the high- 
ways and byways. 

Look at them ! beasts of burden that they 
are. Notice with what hesitating step and 
furtive mien they wend their way. You will 
have to hasten to the gate and entreat them 
kindly. They are very, very weary. 

Robin brings them in with a faculty all 
his own ; seats them at the round table, and 
serves them gently. As they depart from 
our gate they set a seal in its forehead, — a 
cross that other such wanderers may see and 
take heart. To them it is a pledge of the 


84 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


love and charity to be found within : hut 
to me it is the mystic token of the divine 
touch upon the lintel and doorposts of our 
dwelling t 


CHAPTER II. 


RYLE. 

The autocrat of this fishing village of 
Craddock is old Pyle Ryerson, a man of 
special forecast in times and tides, winds 
and weather ; shrewd, choleric, implacable ; 
great in a horse trade ; a fisherman of re- 
pute ; and the most unblushing and invet- 
erate romancer in existence. 

Take a good look at him ! A grizzled 
head and beard that never knew a comb ; 
bleared, unwholesome eyes that squint and 
leer to make your flesh creep ; a nose that 
has seen hard service and got the worst of it 
in many a brawl ; and evil fangs, at inter- 
vals, in his yawning jaws. 

His dress consists of a coarse woolen 
shirt without form, and void of buttons ; 
corduroy trousers stuffed into hobnailed 


36 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


higlilows, with a strap from an old halter to 
gird them. 

His hat, — well, that should have a para- 
graph all to itself. It gives emphasis and 
dramatic flavor to his maudlin meander- 
ings. It is fit to be the crazy ragman’s 
dearest delight. It is Ryle’s too ; I believe 
he sleeps in it. He would as soon think of 
taking the skin off his bones when he goes 
to bed, as any rag of his raiment. 

His toilet is a simple affair ; water and 
towel have no part in it. Ryle Ryerson — 
christened Royal — lends himself to no such 
superstition. A volley of yawns, a violent 
convulsion, and he is “ on deck ” for the day. 

Groldbarr is the god all Craddock wor- 
ships, and Ryle is his prophet. The old 
fisherman’s attitude toward that mighty man 
is not to be questioned ; it rests upon a 
sure basis. But for Ryle Ryerson, all' the 
good fish, scale, shell, and otherwise, would 
not only be “ in the sea, in the sea,” but 
they would elect to stay there. 

Other potentates than Archibald Goldbarr 


RYLE. 


37 


tremble before this doughty fisherman, — 
he makes or mars their South-side banquets 
according to his own good pleasure. For 
who will engage to whistle him in as he lies 
in his boat, at anchor offshore ? His whis- 
key bottle yielded up its spirit long ago ; it 
rests inglorious beside its brother reprobate. 
So does the magnificent sheepshead, that 
should be on the grill in the great man’s 
kitchen, this very minute. 

At sundown, when the skipper comes to 
life, who will whistle for a breeze to blow 
the craft ashore ? Not Kyle. Nor will he 
so much as lift an oar to speed the fish to 
its destination, not he ; not on the great 
South Bay at least, which is as full of whims 
and fancies as the flossy clouds that drape 
its shores. 

The winds and the sun are of one mind 
at eventide ; they like to go down together 
after the tension of a long day, and together 
they rest from their labors. Kyle is equally 
serene. He proposes to rest from his, until 
the moon comes on duty, which will be in a 


38 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


couple of hours. Like others of her sex she 
can be depended upon to stir up a breeze ; 
he will leave it all to her. The moon is in 
a coquettish humor to-night ; from beneath 
her veil she flashes the faintest semblance 
of a smile across the bay. Ryle feels rather 
than sees her airy greeting. At first glimpse 
of her bonny face above the water-line, he 
is alert. The reefs are loosened, and every 
scrap of sail flung out. He has the tiller 
in one hand and a coil of rope in the other, 
and you may be sure that the least flaw of 
wind will serve that wary old skipper to 
better purpose than a reefing breeze would 
another. 

What a rare, mysterious legend will he 
weave to-morrow, when he delivers the 
sheepshead ! — a legend that may dare to 
hold up its head with other monstrous in- 
ventions of his evil genius. The cook will 
not believe one word of the fish story, and 
is sure to tell him so. 

His friends in council, though, delight in 
his lies. They hang upon his words with 


RYLE. 


39 


the true fisherman slouch, swallowing every- 
thing — scales, fins, and tail — without wink- 
ing, and humping themselves comfortably 
over the biggest chunks. 

Ryle is never so agreeable as when 4 4 half 
seas over,” as the fisherfolk say. Then his 
fancy is at high-water mark, and amazing 
yarns come ashore. 

Behold the autocrat to-night as he stands 
at ease in his own doorway, back from a 
three-day cruise. He has brought home a 
mighty cargo of sea -bass and bluefish, — 
they are lying now in state in his ice-house, 
ready for to-morrow’s consideration. His 
catboat is at anchor in the stream, with 
sails furled and decks trim. He has been 
up to the village with divers empty bottles ; 
Ryle expects company. 

Soon the stillness is shaken by the rhyth- 
mical measure of dipping oars, which are 
bringing the sharpies and dories from over 
the creek and down the river. One and 
another will scrape her keel upon the bit of 
beach before his cabin door. From up the 


40 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

road and down the lane his cronies come. 
“ Ryle ’s home ! Ryle ’s home ! ” 

There is Mange, the dog doctor, — univer- 
sally known as “the doctor,” much to the 
disgust of the other professionals, who look 
down in contempt upon the little card 
gummed to the glass window of our village 
post-office by four unpleasant smears of 
flour paste, and bearing the inscription — 

Robekt Mange, D. D. 

and Mr. Teddy Steppnf etcher, who is one 
of the guards of Goldbarr’s tally-ho, selected 
for his shape and manners ; and Larkin, the 
other coach -guard ; and Nathan Taggart, 
gardener, groom, and useful man at Ingle- 
side ; and a host of others. 

u Evenin’, Teddy ! Sir-to-you, Larkin,” 
Ryle begins. “ Take a seat an’ set down. 
Ef that ain’t old Pickaback gittin’ over the 
fence, it ’s the dog doctor ; I can ’t never tell 
t’other from which ’thout my specs. That 
you, doctor ? Shake ! How ’s the purps ? 
Mr. Taggart, my respec’s ; you do me 


RYLE. 


41 


proud, I ’m sure. Gen’lemen, you ’ll find 
reserved seats on the fence ; no extry charge 
for the dress circle.” 

The dog doctor sidles up to the speaker, 
who is by this time sprawled on what he 
calls “ the woodpile,” hut which in reality is 
a helter-skelter of brush, chips, bark, rotten 
timbers, and other wreckage. 

“ You hain’t been up to Goldbarr’s, Ryle,” 
observes Teddy ; “ you done well. I rec’- 
mend you to fetch your shotgun along when 
you git ready to go. If there warn’t Hail 
Columby over there to-night when the 
sheepshead an’ sof’ crabs never showed up, 
then I hope I may never! The old man 
come out with his spy-glass, he did, an’ riz 
the roof. He went round and round them 
stables, roarin’ like thunder, an’ cussin’ blue 
blazes.” 

“ There was some partic’lar bigbugs,” 
says Larkin, “ come down from the city for 
a reg’lar South-side spread. The company 
waited, they did. I was sent kitin’ to the 
willage on Bobtail, las’ minute, to see what 


42 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


I could scrape up. Bless your soul an’ body, 
I got jest what I was sent for ; the renchin’s 
o’ the peddlin’ waggins was what I got. I 
tell you , Mr. Ryerson, if the old man could 
ha’ spotted you with his spy-glass ’long 
about the time that ’ere South-side spread 
got put on the table, you ’d ha’ thought it 
was money in your pocket if you had never 
been born.” 

A roar of laughter greets this defiance. 
Ryle is imperturbable. 

“ Don’t excite yourself, Larkin ; them 
fish is ordered for to-day. They ’re in my 
ice-house this minute a-coolin’ o’ theirselves 
agin they ’re wanted. They died game, 
they did ; an’ they won’t be fittin’ for brilin’ 
nor bilin’ nuther, till they ’ve had time to 
settle their minds to it.” 

There is danger-light in his sunburnt eyes 
that Mange is quick to see; he effects a 
digression. 

“ I see Goldbarr’s gamekeeper, Mr. Trig- 
ger, to-day,” he said. “ He come a’ ter me, 
and fetched me over to the kennels to one 


R YLE. 43 

o’ them fox terriers o’ his’n. It had been 
chawed up considerable by a bull purp. It 
did n’t ’mount to more ’n a good greasin’ an’ 
a splint or two. While I was settin’ the 
bone, I ast him how much loose cash was 
throwed away on the old man’s fancy poul- 
try. Ye ’ll think I ’m stretchin’, an’ I don’t 
blame ye. ’Cordin’ to Mr. Trigger, ten thou- 
sand dollars could n’t buy the lot of ’em.” 

“ Oh, buy your grandmother ! ” said Ryle. 
“ Ten thousand dollars ! Call it fif-teen, and 
I ’ll talk to you. Why, take them spangled 
Hamburgs, and golden Minorcas alone, 
they ’ll bring more a head — more a head ” — 
casting about for a simile — “ than you ’d 
ever bring, Teddy, my boy, put you up at 
the Mineola Fair, lugs, togs, and braces.” 

Teddy is sufficiently aware of his gifts, 
and poses as somebody in particular at these 
gatherings, to the unspeakable rage of the 
rest. 

“ Got a reef took in your sail, my son,” 
snarls Ryle. “ Sposin’ you shinny over, till 
I haul up that precious mere-sham o’ mine.” 


44 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


Teddy makes a symmetrical parcel of 
himself, and poses elsewhere. Ryle watches 
him narrowly with half-closed eyes and an 
ugly twist of his jaw. The dog doctor im- 
mediately makes a face as nearly to match 
as his own features will effect. 

There is a something almost tragic in 
Mange’s subservience to the old tyrant. 
Thackeray longed to have been Shake- 
speare’s bootblack. To Mange, Ryle is 
enough. He believes in him, shadows him, 
trembles before him, and adores him in 
dmnb-dog fashion. 

“ Teddy ’s took a back seat, doctor,” says 
Ryle. “ W ery prudent o’ Teddy ; more room 
out there to spread hisself,” he continues, 
wagging his head. Mange sniffs, and wags 
his with bated fervor. 

Ryle worms himself beneath the brush- 
heap. A moment of suspense, a spasm, a 
cursory remark, and he reappears with an 
eelskin tobacco pouch between his teeth, 
and a corncob pipe in two pieces. 

In burrowing, Ryle caused a suspicious 


RYLE. 


45 


clink of bottles within the woodpile which 
is music to the ears of that convivial band ; 
Mange is thrilled to his tenderest nerve, 
lie gazes thirstily, and murmurs as to a 
familiar spirit, “ Dry ! dry as last year’s 
peapod.” 

Ryle is as deaf as a graven image. He 
fits the stem into place, measures the capa- 
city of the corncob with his eye, and fills it 
with a single pinch of the precious weed. 
The dog doctor scratches a match on his 
“trouser,” and tenders it dutifully to his 
host, who winks one eye slowly for thanks, 
“ fires up,” and proceeds with his parable. 

“ Why punish your head, sir ! ” — this to 
the company in general, — “I was goin’ my 
rounds t’other day, and I happened on one o’ 
them ch’ice breeds o’ his’n. I disremember 
prezactly, but I mistrust it mought ha’ been 
a Cochin-China ; and then agin it mought 
ha’ been a Houdan. It had got out’n the 
pen somehow ’nuther, and it went click ! for 
a dandy pea-fowl that was swaggerin’ round 
and snubbin’ its betters. W ell, sir ! tail- 


46 


PYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


feathers was flyin’ in the face o’ Providence, 
topknots laid low, an’, as I ’m a livin’ 
sinner, I darsn’t tech so much as a bristle 
of ’em. Arter the exercises, Trigger takes 
up a collection,” — with a sly twinkle. “ The 
ladies o’ the fambly takes an’ trims their 
bunnets with ’em, Trigger says.” 

“ I ain’t no use for that kind o’ windfall,” 
declares Larkin, with engaging frankness. 
“ The fambly is welcome to ’em, and the 
kitchen chimbly too, for all me. The hot- 
house peaches are about my size.” 

“ Stiddy, my boy,” says Ryle, “ take it 
easy ; that kind o’ cold wittles ain't for the 
likes o’ you, nor me nuther. I got a peach- 
pit, though, somewheres ’bout these britch- 
aloons, if I kin fish it out, which is a leetle 
more ’n the rest o’ ye kin show.” 

He rummages all the chinks and slits in 
what he calls his “riggin’,” and finds a 
thing that he turns over and over in his cal- 
lous palm. 

“ M’h-h’m ! that ’s ’bout the size of it. 
What ’s yer ’pinions o’ that there peach-pit, 


RYLE. 47 

friends an’ feller citizens? Heft it, some 
on ye.” 

Mange leans forward to the veriest feather 
edge of his balance, to seize it. Larkin 
addresses himself to the dignity of his 
cigar, and is immovable. 

“ I ’ll be blowed if it ain’t the size of a 
cocoanut ! ” chimes in the dog doctor. “ It 
beats me, Lyle, how you git in so sociable 
with them bigbugs ; I can’t make it out.” 

“ Oh, that ain’t nawthin’ to mention. The 
butler sells the pits from the table for 
what ’ll keep him in chaws the rest o’ the 
year. This one ’s worth a quarter, any time 
o’ day ; but it ain’t for sale, this one ain’t. 
I keeps it for fits.” 

He pulls at his corncob fervently ; there 
is no sign of life. 

“ Who ’s a match handy ? This ’ere durn 
pipe ’s out agin. Here you, Larkin, gimme 
a light ; that see-gar o’ yourn is a leetle too 
toney for pore folks, but I ’ll be keerful of 
it.” 

The sprig of gentility rises from his easy 


48 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


degrees, removes the fragrant Havana from 
his lips, and, with a flourish, hands it over. 
The old man examines it quizzically, blows 
away the ashes, nurses the expiring corncob 
into life, and, with a grin, returns the deli- 
cacy. 

There is another impressive person in the 
company to-night, — a 'person built on a 
larger scale ; none other than Mr. Nathan 
Taggart, of Ingleside. His presence at 
these meetings is a condescension. To tell 
the truth, nothing could keep him away. 
“Ryle’s home!” is the electric word that 
will fuse the community into a mass-meeting 
within its boundaries. Nor threats nor en- 
treaties may swerve a mortal man among 
them from the downward path to his cabin 
door. 

“You was about to observe, Mr. Ryer- 
son,” — Nathan is particular in his speech. 
His dignity and importance forbid familiari- 
ties, but he is leaning upon his knees, all 
the same, in an anguish of attention. 

“ Jes’ so, Mister Taggart,” — Ryle is not 


RYLE. 


49 


to be taught manners, — “ jes’ so, sir ! I 
was about to observe, sir, that them Gold- 
barrs makes out to grow their peaches under 
glass the year round. Under glass, sir, an’ 
they ’re as big — as big ” — 

He clenches his great knuckles and holds 
them out to the general view : — 

“ No, sir ; they ’d take two o’ that, sir, 
ev’ry mother’s son of ’em ; an’ a cold ten 
dollars apiece, an’ dirt cheap, afore he gits 
his teeth into ’em.” 

He marks the impression produced, and 
then winds up with — 

“ Gen’lemen o’ the jury, this are a quare 
world. Take it on the half-shell, ’thout salt 
an’ pepper, it ’s ’ bout the quarest world I 
ever tackled.” 

“Ye ain’t tried ’em all yit, old man,” 
Teddy mutters under his breath. 

“ Now there ’s them Goldbarrs,” — Ryle 
pays no attention to Teddy’s aside, — “ if 
they ain’t as quare as you make ’em, I ’ll 
sell my hat for a herrin’.” 

He pulls off the thing thus apostrophized, 


50 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

and brandishes it aloft. When he returns 
it to its place, it is cocked over one ear, the 
brim well down. 

“ They won’t eat nawthin’ that ’s growed 
ou’doors — spiles the flavor, mind ye ! 
That ’s what they say” he continues impar- 
tially, “ and I dessay ’t ain’t all poppycock 
(cuss that skeeter) ; but ou’doors is good 
enough for ‘Ryle’ every time. I ’ll take 
that peach - pit, if it ’s the same to you, 
brother Taggart.” 

He returns it to a corner of a cotton rag 
that pretends to be a handkerchief. This 
he knots securely, and, winding the rest into 
a wad, crams it into a chink of his waist- 
band. 

The dog doctor nods stealthily and signifi- 
cantly to Taggart, who has been struggling 
with fate and the eel-basket for some little 
time. Given that eel-basket upside down, 
with the even balance of a good temper, he 
proposes to sit on it. He has made a but- 
terfly bow of himself, and does not look 
comfortable. 


RYLE. 


51 


Mange, on the contrary, is entirely com- 
fortable. He is doubled up as snug as any 
clasp-knife, hugging his lean knees to his 
bosom, and rocking cosily. Presently he 
breaks out in a high staccato, — 

“ I hearn tell their strawb’ries is ripe in 
March.” 

“ March ! ” returns Pyle, “why, man alive, 
they ’re gittin’ on their las’ legs by that time. 
What ’s this his name is anyhow, — the 
head gardener, ye know, — Bloom, Bloomer, 
Bloomsbury ! that ’s him, — Bloomsbury. 
Well, sir, ’twas ’long ’bout middle o’ March, 
fur as I can recommember, Bloomsbury 
tipped me a wink one day as I was a-passin’, 
an’ sent out that ’ere little imp-o’-Satan o’ 
his’n to hitch my horse, Whiskey, to a post, 
an’ keep flies off’n him.” 

“ Flies ! oh, come off, old man ! Flies in 
March, you know,” — says a sneering voice 
that might be Teddy’s. Pyle goes right 
on : — 

“ But by yer leave, sez I, an’ jes’ as much 
’bleeged to ye, Whiskey ’ll stand better ’thout 


52 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


mindin’, sez I. He wouldn’t take no for 
a answer, — lie ’s that affable. Nawthin’ 
would n’t do for it, but I must toddle into 
that there hothouse an’ measure them straw- 
b’ries. Me an’ him measured ’em, — no 
monkeyin’. Lord bless ye, they measures 
nine to the quart right along. Hulls on, 
mind ye,” with an air of strict accuracy ; 
“ take ’em as they come, nine to the quart. 
He gimme one o’ the super-extrees for luck. 
I never see the like in my born days. I 
fetched it home in my hat, and, if ye ’ll 
b’lieve me, ’t would n’t go into this ’ere din 
tipper — tin dipper, I would say, noways I 
could scrouge it.” 

A croak from some doubting Thomas in 
the rear is repeated by Larkin. Ryle lifts 
his head from the woodpile, and tightens 
his hat like a compress over both ears. 
Then with slow emphasis and scornful up- 
lifting of his brows, — 

“ You was a-goin’ to remark, Mister Lar- 
kin?”— 

But that gentleman is unconscious of 


RYLE. 53 

peril. His eyes are fixed upon vacancy, and 
he is whistling softly. 

The old man casts himself into the depths 
of his safe deposit, and brings up the iden- 
tical bottle that Mange has not for one mo- 
ment forgotten. He pulls the cork with his 
teeth, snuffs at it, and with an obliging 
“ Here ’s to ye, gen’lemen ! ” throws back 
his head, mouthing over the drops in a truly 
maddening manner. The genial bottle is 
then passed around. When it comes back 
to its owner, he turns it upside down, and 
screwing one eye to the vanishing point, re- 
marks : — 

“ Dry, did you say, Doctor ? Dry it is ; 
— dry as the second Presbyterian meetin’- 
’ouse.” 

This sally is electric. There is a general 
upheaval of whoops and cheers, and a double 
shuffle of boots, in which the chastened 
Teddy is conspicuous. 

Taggart now comes forward. He has 
been swelling with the importance of his 
own communication ; he will speak now, or 
perish : — 


54 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ Ahem ! Mr. Steppnfetcher, have ye run 
afoul o’ that fool Fitz-Jinkins ? His folks 
has took the Louisdor cottage ; says he ’s 
kin to the Goldbarrs, cuss his imperence. . . . 
Git out, ye imp o’ Satan ! ” with a sudden 
change of base as his decorous hat goes shy- 
ing over the woodpile. 

“ Why, it ’s Buster,” cries an old clam dig- 
ger from the Point, — “ it ’s Buster Blooms- 
bury. What ’s in the wind now, Buster ? ” 

“ Taggart’s tile, fur as I can see, ” — 
and Mr. Steppnfetcher, otherwise Teddy, 
giggles as naturally as his “ shape and man- 
ners ” will permit. 

Buster is deeply aggrieved. 

“ I did n’t go for to do it, nohow ; I 
stubbed my toe. I did — blame it — it 
hurts ! ” 

“ That ’s all right, sonny,” chirps Teddy. 
He stretches across the woodpile for the 
fleeing “ tile,” dusts and reshapes it, and 
then returns it to its owner. “ That ’s all 
right. You ’ll be a man yet, Buster.” 

“ What ’s up, bub ; what ’s wanted ? ” Ryle 
repeats the inquiry. 


RYLE. 


55 


“ You ’re wanted, sir. Pop sent me over 
to ast you, would n’t you come over to our 
house right away an’ bring ’long yer dom’- 
noes. Pop says he ain’t feelin’ good to-night, 
an’ he wants chirkin’ up. I bin to the store 
for fi’-cents wuth o’ pollygollic,” the boy says 
finally as a clinching argument. 

The old man is so lifted up by the invita- 
tion that he does not speak at once. When 
he does, there is an obligato movement by 
Mange to the effect that he “ guesses he 
must be gittin’ ’long,” and a chorus from 
the others that “they on’y stopped over 
for a shake.” 

Ryle offers protests as false as they are 
ingenious. 

“ All right, mates,” he says at last ; “ what 
suits you suits me. Call agin. Ye kin tell 
yer popper, Buster, I send my respec’s, an’ 
I ’ll be right along arter I sets my pickle. 
Come, boy, git a gait on ye ! Cut 1 ” 

The autocrat hath spoken. 


CHAPTER III. 


Maggy’s sister. 

Ingleside nestles near the edge of Crad- 
dock creek. On the opposite shore rises the 
stately villa of Archibald Goldbarr ; and as 
close to the skirts of the porter’s lodge as was 
ever Mordecai to the king’s gate, stands the 
Seaside Home, — that Heavenly Rest for 
the helpless and the weary. 

W e passed the place, the afternoon of our 
arrival, and we could see the lean bodies 
and pallid faces of those miserable ones as 
they lay in hammocks, on folding chairs, or 
rude wooden settles. Faces in which the 
light of youth and hope had never shone ; 
girls of twenty in the decline of life, aged 
beyond repair. Even the little children 
were a bitter mockery of childhood; they 
had been born old and anxious and distrust- 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


57 


ful. As we beheld them in their languor 
and their loneliness, we knew full well the 
work given us to do. 

So after Ingleside had been set in order, 
and after the three days’ rain had properly 
opened the season, a lovely morning arrives : 
and with it our new-born resolve to do some 
little thing to comfort and cheer these waifs 
and strays. 

The day is perfect for tired eyes and 
quivering nerves. The sun is taking a post- 
meridian nap, and all the harmonies of na- 
ture are in the minor key. A gracious, 
kindly gray sky; a breeze that is scarcely 
more than a fragrance, but what a fragrance ! 
a delicious blending of sea smells and new- 
mown hay everywhere. 

Robin has joined me on the veranda 
after our noon dinner. He is perched on 
the railing, lady-fashion, his back against 
the post. Being of tennisable age, he is 
resplendent in orange stripes and surcingle ; 
and, as the minister puts it, we are “ talking 
conversation,” 


58 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


The conversation is all about “Fetch,” 
and his new spring coat, Robin’s mind 
being given to dress just now. Fetch is 
our best and brawniest horse, and a thor- 
oughbred. 

Nathan delights in his beauty as much as 
we. He has dressed and polished him to- 
day till he is a dazzling sight to see. 

The man comes browsing along, mouth 
full of grass, hat tilted over his nose. He 
comes meandering over my best petunia bed 
so exactly as our cow Sukey would do, that 
we are fain to cry out, “ Soh, Sukey ! soh, 
lady ! ” but refrain, from motives of delicacy. 
I give the order for the afternoon crisply, 
announcing, “ Master Robin will drive.” 

When the carriage is brought round to 
the door, Robin climbs over the wheel into 
his seat and seizes the reins. We drive 
over the bridge, which is a skeleton in armor 
now, and take the back road, across lots, to 
the meek and lowly wicket-gate of the Sea- 
side Home. We seek the gentle sister in 
charge, and tell her our errand. 


MAGGY'S SISTER . 


59 


Together we climb the stairs. In a 
pleasant little room in the quiet wing of the 
house lies a girl of seventeen, whose de- 
formed body, whose ghastly face, whose 
sunken eyes would bring the tears to yours. 
I kneel beside her, and try with gentle 
words to rouse her. She puts out her 
hand with a timid gesture to clasp mine, 
and I think for half a minute the good sis- 
ter will have to take charge of me. 

Such a fragment! Such a poor, scanty 
scrap of a hand ! I cover it quickly with 
both of mine. “ What happened, my child ? ” 

“ Nothink did n’t happen, ma’am ; I was 
born that way ; I did n’t never have no fin- 
gers on that one. But it ’s a real good 
thumb ; I could n’t manage at all without 
my thumb.” 

She says it quite simply ; she sees nothing 
tragic in her destitution. 

I lift her on my arm and plead with her. 
We take her up against her own piteous 
protest, and dress her in the rags that she 
calls her clothes ; and with my valiant old 


60 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


gray cloak, — that veteran in service, — to 
hap her up cosily and cover the holes and 
patches, we induce her to come with us. A 
friend of hers comes too, to hearten her, and 
spare her too strange a feeling with us ; and 
so we drive away. 

She tells me all her touching story : 
where she lives, how she lives, how tired 
she is of living. Better for this child that 
she forget her misery for a little while ; far 
better that she should not speak her thoughts. 
I say this with what tact and gentleness I 
may ; I try by every simple art to turn her 
mind into pleasant channels. But the pain 
is there ; it can be soothed only by sympa- 
thy, — the sympathy that is balm to a suffer- 
ing heart. 

Her father is a ’longshoreman, usually 
out of work and usually drunk. There is a 
little sister, too, who has been discharged 
from the hospital as incurable — a little 
creature, dwarfed, crippled, bedridden. 

“ And I could n’t let her go to the pool*- 
house; no, lady, not if I starved for it. 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


61 


W e ’re decent folks, me and Maggy is, and 
so is father. Mother left her to me when 
she was dyin’, and I promised her.” 

Then after a pause, in which she seems to 
be weighing the value of my sympathy, — 

“ Maggy ’s a real comfort, that ’s what 
Maggy is. I bring home to her nights the 
scraps of silk left from my work — the cut- 
ter saves ’em up for me, he ’s that friendly. 
You could n’t never believe the cute things 
she makes out of ’em. I fix her the best I 
can before I go to work, and she minds her- 
self the day amazin’.” 

“ You leave her quite alone ? Is there no- 
body else the livelong day ? ” 

“ Oh, she ain’t lonesome, she ain’t that 
kind, Maggy ain’t ; she ’s too busy.” 

“ Tell me how you manage.” 

‘‘Well, ma’am, it’ll sound funny to you, 
and I don’t rightly know as I can make you 
understand. First off, I takes a cheer, and I 
turns it bottom up’ards agin the head o’ the 
bed, — the wall, o’ course, for the bed ain’t 
got no head to it. When you tilt a cheer 


62 


KYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


that-a-way, you git a slant out o’ the wrong 
side o’ the back of it good as you can buy 
for money ; and by the time a bit o’ quilt 
gits over it, and the pillow endwise over 
that, an’ you come to prop Maggy agin it 
and tuck her in snug all round, she ’s that 
easy and cosy she might be the Sleepin’ 
Beauty, and room to spare.” She laughs 
at her happy conceit. 

“ How about dinner ? ” Robin asks. 

“ Oh, that ’s easy as nothin’ ’t all ; that ’s 
the least part of it. I can fix her up a real 
good dinner for ten cents. Did j’ ever try 
how fur a knuckle will go ? Then there ’s 
pig’s puddin’, that ’s grand ; it ’s real fillin’ 
for the price. I ’ve only got to cover it 
up, and set it on the winder-sill where she 
can reach it herself, with two cents’ worth o’ 
milk in her mug to wash it down — the 
milkman gives good measure, you see, ’cause 
it ’s for Maggy. It ’s quite a cup, ma’am, 
by the time he ’s done with it.” 

“Does she never rest, — that little sister 
of yours ? ” I ask. 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


63 


44 She ’s got to, some days, lady ; when 
there ’s a storm cornin’ up, mebhe, or some- 
thin’ else partic’lar. Them times she ’s flat 
of her back, it aches so ; more times she 
gits so excited over her doll rags and needle- 
books and bits o’ crazy quilt, she works 
away like a house-afire the whole day long. 
Smart ! she ’s smart as lightnin’.” 

44 And your father, what does he do ? ” 

44 Father ’s never cross with Maggy, never. 
It ’s all along of a lick he give her wunst 
that ails her now. He can’t never seem to 
forgit that lick, father can’t,” dropping her 
gentle voice to a whisper. 44 He did n’t 
know no more ’n the dead ’bout it at the 
time.” 

She was silent for a moment, and then 
continued : — 

44 ’T was a Friday night ; I rec’lect it same 
as yest’day. Mother was ’live then, and we 
was livin’ on a canal boat. The boat was 
layin’ at the dock unloadin’. Us children 
had been put to bed, and the baby, that ’s 
Maggy, was asleep. A hail-storm come up, 


64 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

and the thunder was awful. It was dretful 
late. I shut up my eyes like mother bid 
me, and pretended ; but all the time I was 
watchin’ mother’s face bendin’ over the tal- 
low dip ; I was watchin’ and projeckin’, for 
I saw she were oneasy. Every little minute 
she ’d open the door and stand outside, and 
listen. Then she ’d slip over to the winder, 
and put her face close to the glass where it 
warn’t rag stuffin’, and listen. She could n’t 
git it open noways, for it had been nailed up 
tight to keep we children from failin’ into 
the water when she took the shoes home to 
the boss, and had to lock us in. Mother 
stood there at the winder and listened, but 
she could n’t see nothink or hear nothink for 
the lightnin’ an’ the thunder. 

“ Bimeby there was a dretful sound, like 
the roof failin’ in, or mebbe the old boat 
goin’ to pieces. Mother started up, trem- 
blin’ all over; she dropped her work and 
knocked the candle over. Next minute 
father busted the door open (I believe he 
fell agin it), and called out loud for a light. 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


65 


Mother was frightened, hut she never let on. 
She jes’ groped her way over to him, quiet 
like, and touched him, and spoke to him 
soft, the way she allers did when he warn’t 
hisself. 

“ 6 Tom,’ she says, 4 if you ’ll stand jes’ 
where you are, an’ give me a minute to 
think, I’ll find a match an’ strike a light. 
I ’ve got your supper settin’ on the stove 
for you, Tom ; it ’s a reel nice supper.’ 

“ I dunno how to tell it, ma’am ; I know 
I tell it ill ; hut I ’d ruther go on with it, if 
you don’t mind. 

“ Father had fell in the street a good 
ways from home ; he had hurt his wris’, and 
cut a gash in his forehead, and his face was 
all hloody. Nohody had n’t picked him up, 
for it was in a lonesome kind o’ place, where 
river thieves hides away sometimes. There 
he was, shiverin’ cold, and jes’ as wet as 
slosh ; for the hail had turned to rain, and 
the rain was coinin’ down in buckets. When 
he come to hisself ’nough to crawl home, he 
was pretty nigh beat out. 


66 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


44 Mother scratched a match and it flared 
up, but all she could do, she could n’t find 
the candle ; it had rolled under the stove 
when she jumped. 

44 4 Git another, Mary,’ says father ; 4 git 
a wax one this time, git two ; pantry ’s full 
of ’em,’ — jes’ that-a-way, ma’am. It was all 
there was, and mother knowed it. I see her 
face workin’ behind the matches as she 
scratched ’em. Oh, how white and tired it 
looked ! 

44 All of a suddent father bust out laffin’, 
— the kind that ’s worse ’n cursin’ ; you 
know the kind, lady. He had somethink 
heavy in his hand, an’ oh, ma’am, he threw 
it ! He did n’t take no aim nor nothink, but 
he threw it ; an’ it fell crost Maggy in the 
dark. It missed me, an’ hit Maggy.” 

There is a pitiful break in her voice that 
makes me instinctively draw the poor child 
closer. 

44 Don’t think about it, dear ; let it all go 
for to-day, — just for to-day. See that tress 
of blue smoke curling away above the tree- 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


67 


tops over there ! That ’s the Gypsy camp ; 
we ’ll come back that way, and see the funny 
little babies in their scarlet caps. Their 
mothers swing them from the branches to be 
out of the way; they swing them in nets, 
like so many oranges in a candy store. The 
babies don’t mind it a bit, they like it. 
They crow, and kick their fat legs, and 
swing themselves to sleep. Poor little 
scraps! they have to learn to mind them- 
selves early.” 

“ Hullo ! ” cries Robin, “ look at the yel- 
low-legs, look quick ! See ’em go ! Oh, oh, 
for my shotgun ! They ’re clipping it for 
Calabash Island, the rowdies.” 

The girl is silent for a little while. She 
follows the birds with her serious, earnest 
eyes till they are but a handful of shot flung 
sheer into the ether. Then she turns them 
upon the westering mists and vapors, and, as 
she gazes thoughtfully, she sees among them 
a rift of glory, — a single line of vivid 
beauty. 

We others are silent too. Is there really 


68 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

but one rift in the thick darkness of this 
young girl’s life? Will there be no day- 
dawn of light and color ? Does that monot- 
onous, sombre sky tell her fortune ? Or is 
that living line a written promise of golden 
days behind the curtain ? 

My poor child moves uneasily upon my 
arm ; she catches her breath in a half-spoken 
sob. 

“ You must n’t think so bad o’ father, 
ma’am. He was always misfort’nit ; he 
never had no fair chance. Why, he would n’t 
hurt a hair o’ that baby’s head beknownst, 
and oh, to think how it happened ! 

“ She was layin’ next the wall, and when it 
struck her, she just threw up her little hands, 
give one long, dretful screech, and then was 
still. Mother sunk down on her knees, all 
of a heap, where she was ; she never cried 
out nor moaned, but she give a click in her 
throat wunst, like she was stranglin’. And 
then, ma’am, the dear Lord knowed she 
could n’t bear no more that night. In one 
second the old boat was as light as day. 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 69 

The Lord himself come down from Heaven. 
He was 4 a light to her feet and a lamp to 
her path.’ Them ’s Bible words, ma’am ; 
mother marked the place with a picture card 
in her little red Bible, so I ’d always know 
where to find ’em, — 4 a light to her feet.’ ” 

44 It was the lightning,” I say, half to my- 
self, — 44 and your mother found the candle, 
after all ? ” but she stops me at the word. 

44 Oh, no, she did n’t, lady, — she did n’t 
never find the candle; it was all the dear 
Lord. And it was n’t the lightnin’ neither, 
’t was 4 the light of his countenance.’ ” 

Then, scanning my face anxiously, — 

44 Don’t you believe in mericles ? Mother 
did ; and you ’d believe in ’em too, lady, if 
you was pore folks. The likes of we could n’t 
make no scratch at all — ’t would n’t never 
be no use tryin’ — if there warn’t mericles.” 
She says it very reverently. 

44 And your father ? ” I ask. 

44 Father said he was dizzy and his head 
thumped, and he guessed he ’d turn in, and 
he did n’t want no supper. Mother could n’t 


TO 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


help him; she had snatched up my little 
sister, and was feelin’ her all over and tryin’ 
to bring her to.” 

The tremor in her voice has yielded to 
the long habit of self-repression, of heroic 
resolve ; but the thrill remains. 

“ She was always the dearest little thing, 
lady, and the cutest. She was goin’ on 
three. The knowin’est, old-fashionest lit- 
tle old grandmother ; always runnin’ round 
after mother, and grabbin’ her apurn ; and 
makin’ funny little dips for bows, till you 
could n’t help lovin’ her. 

“We couldn’t never rightly tell what 
ailed her. Happen it was the fright. The 
doctor at the horsepittle said it was percus- 
sion — percussion of the spine. All I know 
is, she never stepped a step after that night, 
never one step. 

“ Mother got her into the horsepittle, and 
she was there a whole year. There was a 
rich lady come twicet a week reg’lar to read 
stories to the men in the accident ward. She 
cottoned to Maggy right away, and mother 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


71 


got to know her. Father said luck had 
turned, and mebbe he was goin’ to get a 
chance now. The lady was dretful kind. 
She got reg’lar work on the docks for father. 
She give him clo’es and a real good over- 
coat and two splendid new red flannel shirts 
that had n’t been wore or tore or nothink ; 
and she spoke up for mother, and got her 
fine sewin’ to take home that paid good. 
Mother sprunted up and took heart. We 
moved out o’ the canal boat, and rented two 
rooms in a real decent neighborhood ; I 
went to the public that winter, and learnt 
my tables and spellin’ in two syllables, and 
I got first prize in ‘ Readinmadeasy.’ Jest 
as true as Friday come and I brought home 
the medal for conduct, mother give me a 
cent, — a cent o’ my own to keep. I did n’t 
have to put it in the missionary box, 
neither ! ” — this with kindling eyes. 

“ Mother give me a red bank for Christ- 
mas, to keep ’em in, but I could spend ’em 
in candy if I liked. It was the shape of a 
beehive, and made out o’ clay — red clay, 


72 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

like a brickbat. It had a little round but- 
ton on top, and a slit to drop the cents in 
below the button, and when you shook it, it 
sounded as rich as gold dollars.” 

“ What a jolly bank ! ” says Robin. 
“ Mine was a tin turtle ; it was horrid. I 
swapped it off with a boy for five white 
alleys and a jackknife. Was n’t he a dunce, 
though ? Heuh ! I should say so.” 

‘‘Never mind, Robin, you ’re interrupt- 
ing. And how long was your little sister 
in the hospital ? ” 

“ A year, ma’am, a whole year ; and she 
never cost nobody a single cent all that time. 
Mother had hopes o’ Maggy all that year, 
and we was that comf’able, you could n’t 
think. 

“ One day father got into a fight with a 
man that owed him a dollar. It was all the 
man’s fault, father said, and served him 
right. Father said the law warn’t just, an’ 
he never see such a guv’ment ; but he had 
to go to jail for thirty days, all the same, 
and the man was took in a nambulance to 
the horsepittle. 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


73 


“ Mother went straight to the lady, to see 
if nothink could n’t be done. The lady was 
sick abed and could n’t see nobody. Mother 
kep’ on goin’ and hopin’ and prayin’ — till 
the lady died. My ! what a grand funeral 
they give her ! 

“ She was the bes’ friend mother ever 
had,” — shaking her head sadly ; “ and what 
a friend she was to my little sister ! After 
that, troubles come thicker ’n hail, a-peltin’ 
us same as they was cobblestones, and beatin’ 
the very life out o’ mother. 

“ Maggy was put out the horsepittle. She 
was brought home in the same nambulance 
that took her into it ; they said she was in- 
curable, and it was ’gainst the rules to keep 
her. When father was let out at last he 
warn’t the same, father warn’t ; he was dif- 
f’rent, ... I guess I better not speak o’ 
that part of it, ma’am.” 

“ I would n’t, dear ; I know all about it. 
Tell me about your little sister.” 

“ I ’m cornin’ to that, lady. When Maggy 
came back we had to move out, ’cause there 


74 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


warn’t no money cornin’ in, and no ways o’ 
gittin’ none. Mother went back to the shoe 
bindin’, and I could n’t be spared for no 
more schoolin’. I was turned ’leven. I was 
always crazy over books, but that did n’t 
help it any.” 

“ No, it did n’t help it any,” I find myself 
repeating. 

“ I got work in a necktie fact’ry. The 
boss soon see I was handy with my needle, 
and he gimme three dollars a week. When 
mother died, he raised it to four. I ’ve 
worked there ever since.” 

As she leans against me, pouring out her 
sorrowful heart, the strong salt winds are 
blowing purely, with healing and hope, cheer 
and cleansing, in their breath. As I watch 
her upturned face, I can see the shadows of 
death lifting — lifting from her eyes, her 
mouth, her brow ; and in their place has 
come the hue of life. 

By and by we wander from the main road 
into a narrow pathway that leads through 
our own beloved pine woods, — a pathway 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 


75 


thickly carpeted with pine needles, and redo- 
lent of balsam, birch, and other pungent de- 
lights. A moment more, and we have left 
the kindly shadows and the fragrance be- 
hind us : our carriage wheels are creasing 
and crumpling the veils and scarfs of sea- 
weed that are tossed high upon the shore ; 
and there before us, in all its delicious beauty, 
lies our great South Bay. It is alive with 
white crests, white wings, white sails ; the 
very sky is lending its mood to the humor 
of the hour. 

Our sick girl has forgotten her pain. She 
is alert, eager : gazing at the living beauty, 
the adorable loveliness, the joy and glad- 
ness of this world, as she will gaze at their 
superlatives some day in the Kingdom of 
Heaven, hereafter. 

She has never seen the country before. 
The common rural sights and sounds and 
conditions amaze her ; fill her innocent soul 
with an ecstasy that overflows in broken 
words and radiant tears. 

Little by little I tell her the traditions of 


76 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


the places we pass, — Indian legends, love 
stories of the colonists, stories of a stern 
and tragic cast. My sick girl is erect, tense : 
her eyes alight and glowing. 

We remember our promise of the Gypsies, 
and come home by the other road, through 
denser woods, where they have chosen to 
pitch their tents. We arrive at the witch- 
ing hour of their evening meal. The Gypsy 
pots and kettles are just as busy as they 
can be, — busier far than the women who 
minister to them. The lids are making a 
great to-do over the secrets they know and 
must not tell. Ever and anon one topples 
over sideways in an overburst of laughter. 
Robin is delighted, but my poor child does 
not care to linger ; it is all too real. 

“ They ’re like the river thieves about the 
docks in the city,” she says. 44 Many ’s the 
time I ’ve run for my life from ’em, and the 
women are dretful.” 

44 Have you really, though ? ” cries the 
boy, turning round and eying the speaker 
curiously. 


MAGGY'S SISTER. 77 

Then, recovering himself, he points with 
the whip : — 

“ Look at the babies ! look at ’em swing- 
ing from the trees like monkeys, look : look ! 
Don’t go home yet, mamma, that ’s a goody ; 
let ’s have all our fortunes told, — I ’ve got 
a quarter ! ” 

But no, I will not listen to him ; this 
perfect afternoon must have no flaw, no 
blemish, for this, our stranger friend. 

We drive freshly through the bridle-path, 
that is no path at all, and out again into the 
free, beautiful open. As we turn into the 
narrow lane that brings us back to the Sear- 
side Home, she lays her crumpled hand upon 
mine that is whole, and says humbly, — 

“ Will you kiss me, ma’am, — would you 
very much mind ? ” 

“ Kiss you, my poor child ! ” I take her 
gentle face in both hands, and kiss her heart- 
ily ; and as her faltering lips touch mine, I 
know that she has sealed them with an un- 
speakable blessing forever. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

The little schoolmistress has a pretty 
habit of inviting herself to breakfast with 
us. If Robin and I are late or busy or else- 
where, the Dutch chair is sure to be at home 
to receive her. When we appear, she has 
joined hands with the honeysuckle at the 
window, and together they are throwing 
sweet lasses to us with their delicate white 
fingers ; tossing kisses, and wafting good 
wishes with the breath of the morning. 

Nature is luxurious on the south side of 
our Island. She affects vapor baths, espe- 
cially at sunrise ; and she takes her time 
about it. 

The girl’s fair face against the golden 
mist is a rare and radiant picture ; so pure, 
so fresh, so wholesome. My handmaiden 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 79 

thinks so too. She gazes at her with wor- 
shipful eyes. The little schoolmistress looks 
in at the window, and desires to know the 
exact amount of chocolate to he brewed 
this morning. Mary knows to a pinch ; it 
has been her painful duty to grate every 
morsel. 

“ The full of the big hominy pipkin, 
Miss ; the clairgy ’s cornin’, d’ ye moind,” — 
gravely. “ He ’ll go bail for foive coops, he 
will, for all his manners an’ ‘ No, I nivers.’ 
’T ain’t skimped naythur ; it ’s as rich as 
Goldbarr, Miss.” 

“ Nobody down yet, Mary ? Where ’s 
Robin?” 

“Robin wint on a arrant fur his mar, 
afore sun-up ; he wint over the crik,” — peer- 
ing out of the window for some sign of her 
darling. “ You Buster ! ” shaking her fist 
at an apple-cheeked urchin who is marching 
straight up to the front door. “Ye villin ! 
Lave the moosharoons forninst the kitchen 
windy loike I bid yees. How many ’s the 
toimes I got to tell ye that, ye hay then ! ” 


80 


KYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


“ Did n’t never tell me no sich a thing ; ” 
the boy faces her, quite unabashed. 

“ I did, thin, ye spalpeen. Ye don’t know 
nothink, and ye always will. Phat ’ll Miss 
Ethel say to yees ? ” 

But this is not school time ; there is only 
a kindly twinkle in Miss Ethel’s eyes. 

“ Bedad, thin, an’ here cooms the minister 
lep’in down the lane, an’ dhivil a dhrop o’ 
crame to his berries ! ” With which start- 
ling announcement, she snatches up a squat- 
shaped crystal pitcher from the table, and 
makes off with it in the direction of the 
dairy. 

The girl hesitates no longer. She swings 
her lithe body over the sill with the ease of 
an athlete, turns her shapely shoulders the 
other way, and when the minister arrives, 
she is deep in the mysteries of drawn- 
stitch. 

The man has a boyish trick of blushing. 
He has attained the masterful age of thirty ; 
he is six feet and a fraction over, and he 
has never grown up ! Who says so ? The 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 81 

three old maids that live at the other end of 
the village with their black cats say so ; and 
they certainly ought to know. “ When a 
man sets himself up for a preacher, — when 
a man takes on himself the charge of a par- 
ish, — when a mortal man presumes to but- 
ton up his waistcoat behind, with never so 
much as a shoestring for a necktie, they are 
free to confess it ’s about time that man 
grew up.” 

With due respect to the old maids, we 
don’t think so, and we hope and devoutly 
pray he never will. We like the dash and 
fervor he puts into football and tennis ; we 
like him in his boating dress, ready to row a 
race, or straining every sinew in his vigorous 
body to reach the stake-boat, up the bay. 
We like to watch the grand sweep of his 
oar, — the long pull and the steady pull ; to 
watch his eyes, that are not unconscious of 
the other eyes that are following him with 
eager, anxious gaze. And when he wins, we 
like the rainbow in his eyes, — the rainbow 
of joy and triumph. 


82 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


By what subtle sense did he know who 
else was coming to breakfast this morning ? 
That he did know is written in red letters 
upon his face. Perhaps the east windows 
of the rectory were in the plot. Those eyes 
are far-sighted. 

The little schoolmistress is as fond of the 
water as any sunbeam. I mention this, 
because it bears on the case. One of the 
pleasant things in her meagre life is to 
waken with the birds, dress quickly, steal 
through the silent house like a breath of 
pure air, out through the back door, and off 
and away to the bluff on the shore. 

She is there in time to give the first sun- 
beam good morning, and then the girl and 
the sunbeam have a vapor bath together. 

Her life is not so full of pleasures that 
she can afford to lose this one. It is a 
seamy life, at best, for this brave, self-help- 
ful girl. For her are seams with ragged 
edges, and sometimes a welt that presses on 
a sensiti ve nerve. She keeps these seams on 
the under side ; covers the shreds and thread- 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 83 

bare places with her womanly dignity and 
reserve ; asks pity and protection of no one : 
but she will give them graciously to you and 
to me when we need them. 

The young rector may not consent to 
answer the early birds. But when such a 
messenger as that self-same sunbeam arrives 
at his casement, fresh from its vapor bath, 
and tells its errand, he is awake indeed, — 
awake, clothed, and in his right mind. 
Being of the nobler sex, he does not have to 
lift latches stealthily, close doors softly, and 
glide away. He may clear the stairs in one 
mad leap, snatch the hat that is at hand, 
rattle the bolts, fling the door open, and be 
off like a rushing mighty wind, leaving his 
prim, precise housekeeper to gather up the 
fragments and repair damages. 

The mighty wind goes no further than 
Ingleside, as it happens, for the golden mist 
and the two sunbeams have left the shore, 
and are already at the window, resting. 

The mighty wind is not without intelli- 
gence. It resolves itself at once into its 


84 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


normal condition of a refreshing breeze, 
lowers its colors, — flaming as they are, and 
would very much like to come in at the 
window. 

That any guest should be on the wrong 
side of any entrance to Ingleside is against 
the laws of our order, — least of all the 
minister ; yet there he stands, blushing like 
a schoolboy. Lifting his- hat, he bends his 
head with a fine gesture. 

“ Good morning, Miss Ethel ! May I 
come in ? ” 

“ Why, Mr. Armstrong ! That you ? 
What in the wide world brings you out so 
early?” 

“ Early ! Why, breakfast, of course, — 
what else ? ” 

“ Breakfast, indeed,” cries the girl, gayly ; 
“takes more than breakfast to tempt me 
out of doors this time of day.” 

“ What, then, for instance ? ” 

“ Why, sunrise, of course, — a clear case 
of sunrise. I had it thoroughly about two 
hours ago ; am convalescing slowly ; expect 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 85 

to sit up presently and take a little nourish- 
ment.” 

“ Absurd, — perfectly absurd ! ” 

“ Not a bit of it, Mr. Armstrong, it was 
— ecstatic.” 

“ Possibly, Miss Ethel, but I doubt it ; 
I ’m sensitive about sunrises in midsummer. 
In winter they ’re all very well, — I will go 
so far as to say they should be encouraged ; 
but in July, you know ” — 

“ Well, it all happened so long ago,” — 
she looks at him in a dreadfully teasing 
way, — “ and I seem to be doing so nicely, 
I thought I might speak of it.” 

Both laugh. It Is nonsense ; but it seems 
akin to the bubbling effervescence of the 
morning. 

“ I ’m making a study of sunrises,” she 
says ; “ it ’s fascinating. After a thought- 
ful contemplation of the subject for some 
time, I feel qualified to ‘ hand in my report,’ 
as we say to the School Committee, and 
‘give an opinion.’ ” 

“ Speaking of opinions, what is yours upon 


86 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

the subject of breakfast ? I solemnly do 
declare I ’m as hungry as a bear.” 

“ No, really ? Then if you ’ll excuse 
me,” — and she edges away from him. 

“ As hungry as a bear, Miss Ethel, ’pon 
honor. From my point of observation I 
smell deviled drumsticks floating in the air ; 
and I ’m willing to wager my new tennis 
racket upon mushroom omelet.” 

“ Now that guess does you credit,” she 
says demurely ; “ for you could not possibly 
have met Buster on the road, and looked 
into his basket ! ” 

“Do you know, that boy is a character,” 
the minister says ; “ he has more yeast in 
his composition than anybody I know. 
What that youngster needs is a good, strong 
lid on him, to keep him in bounds.” 

“ Ah, don’t, Mr. Armstrong ; please don’t. 
Good, wholesome yeast is a tremendous 
help. If I had not more than most women 
of my work-a-day life, I could never rise 
above the fetters and encumbrances. Take 
this morning. I wakened with a great, 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 87 

stupid lump in my throat. There was no 
reasonable reason for it in the world. 
Nerves? Not a bit of it. Nerves, to my 
mind, are two parts selfishness and the rest 
ill temper. No, it was a lingering weight of 
an unhappy discussion the night before. It 
was the lid that had got shut down too 
tightly, don’t you see.” 

She smiles quietly as she speaks, and then 
falls silent. The man regards her wistfully ; 
his lips move in voiceless words, but he does 
not trust himself to utter them. Presently 
she turns her face to him. 

“ There is a golden remedy for ailing 
minds and nerves right here if we will take 
it,” she says. 

“ May be, but I doubt its virtue when 
one’s mental vane points east. Mine ’s been 
pointing that way for quite a spell, as Ryle 
puts it.” 

“ Has it ? then my remedy is the remedy 
for you. I had n’t run three races in the 
sunshine with Bang this morning before I 
was as happy as he. Wasn’t I, you dear 


88 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


old bow-wow? Speak up, sir! Speak up, 
and tell the company what you know about 
it.” 

The dog lays his head on her lap and 
wags assent, eying the minister attentively. 

“ The lid was gone — was n’t it, doggie ? 
— and the yeast just bubbling over.” 

“ Ah, Miss Ethel, you are a lesson to me 
always. What am I ? A worm, — a crawl- 
ing worm, a black beetle ” — 

“ No ! Then you ’re blacker than you ’re 
painted ; ” the rector is of purest Saxon 
type. 

“ A black beetle,” he repeats slowly. 

“ You don’t say so ! ” 

“ Worse than that,” he persists ; “ I ’m a 
fly, a dead fly, floating down the sluice of 
time.” 

“ Now you ’re calling names ” — 

“ I go about making a parade of my pow- 
ers and taking up considerable room. What 
do I achieve ? What, indeed ? I spend my 
days beating the air, or trying to fill a sieve 
with water.” 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS . 89 

He pulls off his hat and turns it round 
and round. Unconsciously he is revolving 
the problems of life in his disordered mind. 
Come to compare that wheel of fate with a 
certain hat that is tilted far back on a fair 
head before him, they are surprisingly alike. 
Both are of rough straw, trimmed with a 
broad band of boating flannel. Absurdly 
incongruous with the waistcoat of clerical 
cut and unhappy fame ; deliciously in tone 
with the dainty white muslin and azure rib- 
bons. 

The schoolmistress is a lovely picture in 
that old oaken chair. How it emphasizes 
her young beauty in every curve and out- 
line ! Our grandmothers knew the artistic 
value of a carven high-backed elbow-chair 
as a setting. The wisdom that died with 
them lives again in the interiors of to-day. 

Stuffed and tufted abominations in broca- 
telle and horsehair are no more. Peace to 
their ashes ! Long live Chippendale ! 

“I don’t believe that seat is good for 
you,” Miss Ethel says lightly. “You are 


90 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


trying to balance yourself and some other 
cumbersome truths upon too narrow a basis ; 
and just because you have n’t the moral sup- 
port of your second cup of chocolate, you 
choose to be discouraged. You had a great 
deal better climb in at the window and have 
Bang’s place on the ottoman. He has gone 
upstairs to wake up the family.” 

“ Discouraged ! You always discourage 
me, Miss Ethel. The record of a single 
day in your life is as far beyond my best 
endeavor as is that subtle something that we 
call success.” 

The girl counts the threads in her breadth 
of linen, takes a single strand in her hand, 
and draws it through the woof without break- 
ing. The young man watches her guiding 
fingers earnestly, — watches them, after they 
have fallen idly in her lap. Presently she 
lifts her clear gray eyes to his, and says 
gently, — 

“ My life ? my friend, — mine ? Do you 
know what it holds ? Only threads that are 
poor and pitiful, — threads that must be 


THE LITTLE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 91 

disentangled with an even, steady touch. 
If one is broken, the pattern is marred, 
strained, and the fabric is worthless. Shabby 
tasks they are at best, and ah ! how many 
ravelings left over, not worth the keeping ! ” 
“Who isn’t worth the keeping?” asks 
a person who enters with a plate of hot 
biscuits in her hand ; “ worth keeping in- 
deed ! both of you are immensely worth 
keeping. Don’t stop to argue, for here 
comes the omelet. Mr. Armstrong! how 
good of you ! Ethel, my dear, I approve of 
you ! Come right to breakfast ; we won’t 
wait for Robin. He has gone down the 
creek for strawberries.” 


CHAPTER V. 


MY FRIEND, THE GHOST. 

Truly this little table of ours has the gift 
of friendship. It is essentially and consti- 
tutionally feminine. Its airs and graces 
and its passion for dress are in character. 
It is a perpetual dissolving view of toilets ; 
no seaside belle, her first season, could do 
better. 

When the chocolate pot is empty ; when 
the mushrooms are but a luscious memory ; 
when our guests have left us (the school- 
house, by a happy dispensation, is directly 
on the road to the rectory) ; when the host- 
ess has exchanged opinions with the butcher 
upon the open question of cutlets or chops ; 
when that bad quarter of an hour is ended, 
and with it the cares of the day, — then I 
find this feminine thing resplendent in a 


MY FRIEND , THE GHOST. 93 

drapery of Turkey red. My work-basket is 
there for show; the key -basket for disci- 
pline, — which, by the way, is a family joke, 
and more amusing to Keziah than the rest 
of us. Freshly cut magazines abound ; 
freshly cut wild flowers do much more 
abound. 

In due order arrives dinner, done up in 
damask and fine linen ; and anon, the mova- 
ble feast of high tea, the table decollete , of 
course. Cool evenings bring to light a hum- 
ble candle or two, which are put out of coun- 
tenance at once by the firelight. 

The chairs at Ingleside are character stud- 
ies. Some are rough -hewn, angular, un- 
yielding ; some grim and forbidding. Others 
are of such gracious dispositions they are 
worn to the grain ; they hold out their arms 
to you always, and bid you welcome. 

If they should fail to soothe you, the di- 
vans and cushioned settles invite you to 
their cosy comers. 

Do you happen to know a barrel-chair? 
Not a paltry flour barrel, remember, but a 


94 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


big fellow, of the sugar persuasion. If you 
do, you have discovered the exact locality of 
the lap of luxury. How kindly they fit 
every ailing spot in your weary frame. 

They remind you of trained nurses, in 
their blue and white uniform, and in their 
faculty and faithfulness. Two of them are 
in charge of my bedroom fire, the white bear- 
skin between them to mind the sparks and 
embers. Will you come with us across the 
hall, and behold the rest of our kingdom ? 

We enter through what seems to be a 
curious panel in the wall, — a door, in fact, 
— that is gilded and inlaid and cunningly 
carven. It has a history. 

In its youth it swung in the cabin of an 
Algerine corsair. Its fine qualities unfitted 
it for that career. It was washed away, 
picked up, and took passage, as another 
cabin door, on a trading vessel bound for 
Valparaiso. 

It never saw Valparaiso. This beautiful 
relic drifted hither and thither, seeking rest 
and finding none, until, upon the breast of a 


\ 

\ 


MY FRIEND, THE GHOST. 95 

tidal wave, it came ashore at our very gates, 
— bruised, maimed, and the life nearly beaten 
out of it. 

In this plight it was found by Somebody, 
who lifted it tenderly, placed it on a litter, 
and bore it hither. Then the wounds were 
dressed and healed, and being clothed anew 
in grace and beauty, it was given this post 
of honor. This panel is now an open-sesame 
to an interior of a hundred years ago. 

We enter the room by an abrupt descent 
of three steps, — a pretty whim that we find 
in some old homes. 

Behold that stately old four-poster ! Did 
you ever see such a grandee ? with its tester 
to the ceiling, its valance and petticoat of 
painted muslin, its dimity counterpane, its 
pillow frills and naperies. It contains a 
huge feather-bed, full of feathers that are 
feathers. Not cotton batting, turkey wings, 
tarred clothes-line, and other such surprise 
parcels, any of which you will find to-day 
in your own high and mighty pillows if you 
take pains to rip them open. 


96 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


Three carpet-covered steps are beside it. 
Without this happy medium, none but a 
monkey or a daddy-long legs could hope to 
scale its outposts. 

Being a feather-bed, and this the nine- 
teenth century, it is my bounden duty to 
renounce it with all its works. And so I 
will, — when the summer is ended, and our 
lease with it. Meanwhile the trundle-bed is 
hauled out from beneath it o’ nights, and a 
small boy I know curls himself up on it in 
luxurious fashion, face to the firelight. 

Ask the boy his opinion of that trundle- 
bed some cold, wet night in May or late Sep- 
tember, when the log-fire has been on its 
best behavior all day, — when a harvest of 
living glory is there to prove its good deeds. 

The crickets and I are having a delightful 
time by the other fire. We have exchanged 
confidences upon matters and things. They 
have announced their determination to 
“ cheer up ” under all circumstances, and I 
agree to do the same — with limitations. 

I hear Keziah in the nether regions, beat- 


MY FRIEND , THE GHOST \ 97 

ing up muffins for tlie morning. This old 
darkey is — but I must describe Keziah. 
Imagine one of these elderly, ’sponsible, high 
doxology, head-handkerchief colored women, 
— so deeply, darkly colored as to be black. 
She belongs to a class fast becoming ex- 
tinct. She is one of the instances where the 
long habit of a life’s devoted service has be- 
come a dearer passion than the guise and 
semblance, the romance and mystery, of Lib- 
erty ! This dear old remnant of plantation 
days has christened me, in her dialect, 
“ Mis’ M’riar.” 

Music hath charms for this, my dusky 
handmaid. As her brawny arm wields that 
wooden spoon, an astonishing medley, in fal- 
setto, joins our chorus 

“Jingo bum, cider come, 

Massa gib poor nigga some. 

Massa ’n’ Missee tellee me 
When I die dey set me free ! 

Jingo bum, cider come, 

Massa gib ole nigga some ! ” 


She sings with the fervor of a camp-meet- 


98 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


ing shout. It rouses the small sleepy-head 
from the pillow ; Eobin is wide awake, out 
of that trundle-bed, and on his restless feet 
again. Such a rattlety-bang as comes hurt- 
ling through the closed doors ! The boy is 
having a hilarious time : he is a whole min- 
strel show, end - men included, — patting 
Juba, beating Husky, and dancing a darkey 
hoe-down. 

It behooves me that I leave the crickets, 
and go in and admonish him. But the old 
Dutch clock speaks before me ; it points its 
aged hand to the hour, and calls out huskily, 
“ Nine o’clock ! ” in its mother-tongue. 

What a dear old clock it is, to be sure ! 
Standing in this draughty hall so many years, 
what better do you expect than a cracked 
voice, a wheezy, sneezy snuffle, and a broken 
constitution ? 

This clock has a trick, when the rest of 
the house is silent, of soliloquizing like un- 
real people in books ; and when you are 
wakeful, it will croon a lullaby that will 
bring to you surcease of struggle. 


MY FRIEND , THE GHOST. 99 

How heartening is the sound of its voice 
at dead o’ night, when hoot-owls and other 
hobgoblins are whistling and shrilling to the 
soughing winds, — as heartening as the cries 
of the night-watchman of ye olden time, 
calling out the hour, — - 

“ One-o’clock, and-all is-well ! 

Two -o’ clock ! no-harm -’s-bef ell ! 

Three-o’clock! the day-is-breaking ! 

Four-o’clock! the birds-are-waking ! ” 

This old timekeeper is our private watch- 
man by night and by day ; and, indeed, is 
as trusty as a house-dog. Awhile he strikes 
his venerable chime, hoarse from the sea 
fogs, and waves on the hours with his trem- 
bling hands. 

He is well armed too ; he carries deadly 
weapons. You have only to unbutton his 
overcoat, and out tumble a flintlock mus- 
ket, a tomahawk, and a couple of rusty 
horse-pistols. In his inside hip-pocket lurks 
a desperately wicked-looking blunderbuss 
without a trigger. 

Robin knows it well. When a detach- 


100 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


ment from the village — bare-legged little 
pirates — swoop down on our melon patch 
or currant bushes, and proceed to fill their 
sacks with plunder, Robin runs for this 
blunderbuss. After a skirmish, in which 
Keziah is conspicuous with the rolling-pin, 
the enemy is put to rout with great slaughter. 

Beside the pompous four-poster stands a 
mahogany wardrobe, time-worn, blackened 
with age, and of an ancient pattern. The 
middle division is a deep recess wherein is 
framed a piece of patchwork that our 
grandmothers called “ a mirror.” Here our 
resident ghost may behold itself at full 
length on any moonlight night, if it has a 
mind. Right and left are massive doors. 
One of them opens into a space so vast as to 
lead you to wonder whether Bluebeard’s 
wives — all seven of them — may not have 
once hung from these very pegs in a grue- 
some row. Behind the other door are 
drawers and shelves befitting the wedding 
garments of those amiable and unfortunate 
ladies. 


MY FRIEND , THE GHOST. 101 

The windows of this room are mullioned, 
and crisscrossed with tiny panes. Their 
framework is uncouth, not to say obtrusive ; 
but when you consider the grace of the 
dimity curtains, edged, as they are, with 
ball fringes of a dead-and-gone fashion, and 
come to loop them high to let in the blessed 
sunlight, you would not order them other- 
wise. 

The garret, though, is the chief charm of 
this old homestead. The little schoolmistress 
insists it is the most sentimental and roman- 
tic thing about the house. Robin and I 
saw it first and saw it thoroughly that rainy 
day last October when we were storm-bound, 
played at housekeeping, and discovered the 
boasted 44 tack-me-downs.” 

A rambling, odd-and-even, happy-go-lucky, 
go-as-you-please kind of garret, that may 
be said to overrun the house. Here are 
rafters and crossbeams that would be naked 
enough but for the covering of dust and 
cobwebs. The skylights are dimmed and 
blurred with fallen leaves ; the dormer 


102 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


windows might be dead-lights or dark lan- 
terns for all the light they give. For this 
their knitted hoods and raveled veils of 
vines are partly responsible ; but leave Na- 
ture to her own devices, — to her slow and 
sure processes, — and you may safely intrust 
to her the artistic values of the most criti- 
cal situation. 

How we have ransacked these scutcheoned 
chests, — how we have rummaged the old 
hair trunks ! Absurdly small they seem to 
us for the temporary needs of a woman of 
even a hundred years ago. Fancy such a 
dainty thing, studded and initialed, as it is, 
with brass-headed nails, and embossed on 
lock and hasp — fancy it consigned to any 
other place of transfer than the boot of the 
family coach of the olden time ! 

In one of these trunks we found a loose 
parcel of baby-clothes ; a fragment of a 
waistcoat of continental cut — the pocket 
flap I think, and richly embroidered ; an 
odd epaulette, a pair of spurs ; and a packet 
of letters, time-stained, rumpled, and tied 
with a bit of faded ribbon. 


MY FRIEND , THE GHOST. 103 

Here are quilting - frames and candle- 
moulds. Beside a broken-down spinning- 
wheel swaggers a tipsy-looking reel, and 
facing it stands a rakish old hackle, grinning 
and mowing, — a worthy couple. Flax has 
been tossed upon them, like impossible wigs, 
never intended to fit any head. Huddled to- 
gether in one corner is a litter of firedogs — 
a mongrel lot ; while one-legged tongs and 
rusty shovels are hob-and-nob with a fender. 
A rose-water still, in the last stage of decline, 
lies on its back under one of the eaves. 
From the rafters and crossbeams dangle fish- 
nets and tackle ; and tilted against them are 
oyster rakes, boathooks, and other seafaring 
implements, — these are Byle’s later contri- 
bution. Last of all are rusty chains that rat- 
tle and grate when the wind and the resident 
ghost — 

Just here a parenthesis in behalf of the 
ghost. I may as well confess that the ghost 
and I are on excellent terms ; for it supplies 
a mysterious zest and flavor to my simple 
life, a variety to my solitudes. The ghost 


104 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


and I have formed a secret society into which 
the tall Dutch clock and the cat Ebenezer, 
only, have been admitted. Not Robin, nor 
yet the servants : the one being voted out as 
too yoimg, and the others inimical to secret 
societies of all kinds. When we meet at the 
ingleside for a conference — the clock, the 
ghost, and the crickets, — did I mention the 
crickets ? — the clock is an invaluable mem- 
ber ; for it stands sentry in the hall-way, and 
sounds the alarum at approach of hostile 
forces. 

But the parenthesis has waxed to a para- 
graph, and not a single word, yet about the 
ghost which — But here come the little 
schoolmistress and our young rector ! 


CHAPTER VI. 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 

The stately four-poster has a good and 
faithful servant in a warming-pan of great 
age, which hangs within reach, and has car- 
ried and fetched for generations. Its long 
wooden handle is charred and scarred in 
many places ; the brazen face is furrowed 
like the face of the venerable timekeeper. 
The moment Robin beheld it, he marked it 
for his own. 

“ How ’s that for a corn-popper, mamma ? 
Is n’t it a daisy ? It ’ll pop a peck in a jiffy. 
It ’s just immense.” The boy shells his 
corn serenely into the warming-pan, with a 
watchful eye upon the bed of coals. 

Keziah does not approve of either of us : 
to put it mildly, she is furious. She fills 
her clay pipe with equal parts of indigna- 


103 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

tion and tobacco, lights it with a flash of her 
snapping black eyes, and betakes herself to 
the smoke-house. There she seats herself 
upon the doorsill ; and with the tail of her 
gown pulled carefully over her head for a 
mosquito bar, addresses her remarks to the 
burning tobacco. 

“ Mis’ M’riar gwine spile dat chile, sho’. 
It ’s de mussy o’ de Lord he ’s all de chil’en 
dey is on de lan’ ; ’ca’se it ’s mons’ous little 
manners he ’s mindin’ dese days, lemme tell 
ye. Bed -warmers in de parlor, mine yo’, 
an’ cookin’ wittles in ’em ! It ’s agin Scrip- 
tur’.” 

Mary has followed the old woman out to 
the smoke-house for a comfortable gossip. 
Mary is of a social turn. 

“ Go aisy, Keziah, do.” 

“ Bed-warmers in de parlor ! ” — with aw- 
ful distinctness, — “aij’ when de coals git to 
burnin’ slow, ’count o’ bein' put upon twel 
dey ’s mos’ gin out, ‘ Poke ’em up wid de 
handle, Robin, — poke ’em up wid de han- 
dle ! ’ Nex’ news, she ’ll gib him Wesley’s 
trac’s for lamplighters.” 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 107 

She smokes so fiercely for a minute that 
the coals in her pipe wink fast. 

“ Did ye shet de kitchen do’ tight arter 
ye, cornin’ out, Mary ? Dat black rascal ob 
a cat, Eb’nezer, got his mind sot on a mos- 
sel o’ chicken giblets I bin a-choppin’ and 
gittin’ ready for a stew in de mawnin’. 
Robin have a fit if dat cat gits dat stew.” 

“ Thin phat ’s the sinse o’ lavin’ it forninst 
the windy to timpt the dhivil himself ? It ’s 
the sinsible pussy-cat that ’ll give a le’p 
clane through the miskaytee nits an’ make 
a meal o’ the same, the craythur.” 

“ Skeeters is havin’ a camp-meetin’ shout 
in dese ’ere diggins dis night, sho’,” says the 
old woman, sharply ; “dere was ’nough skee- 
ters singin’ in the back po’ch, when I come 
out de kitchen, for a hololujah metre, wid- 
out countin’ de pinchin’ bugs. What yo’ 
come traipsin’ out ’ere for, anyways ? ’Pears 
like ye mought ha’ been pearter to stay whar 
ye come from, Mary Muldoon.” 

But Miss Muldoon thinks differently. 
She makes a bag of her apron, and ties her 


108 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE . 


frowzy head into it. This done, she pulls 
the wheelbarrow from behind the smoke- 
house, puts it close to Keziah, seats herself 
tailor-fashion, tucking her skirts well over 
her ankles, and feels as welcome as she is 
comfortable. 

“ Phat ’s the sinse groomblin’ ? An’ is it 
Robin ye ’re afther ’busin’ ? An y phat ’s 
the matter wid the b’y ? ” 

“ Ain’t nuffin much matter wid him , it ’s 
his maw. ’T was on’y yes’day — no ’t wa’n’t 
yes’day nuther — lemme see when ’t was, 

— why, ’t was dis mawnin’, — dis blessed 
mawnin’. Nuffin’ would n’t pacify Robin but 
he mus’ go crabbin’’ wid dat low-down, or- 
nery Buster. (Ole Satin boun’ to git dat 
Buster Bloomsb’ry yit, wid his foolin’.) 
4 Whar gwine git yo’ crab bait ? ’ sez I, ‘wid 
de las’ mossel o’ dog meat a-bilin’ dis min- 
nit in de soup ? ’ 

“ What does Mis’ M’riar do — his own 
maw, mind yo’ — but go git de lam’ chops 

— de Sunday -bes’ chops — an’ gib ’em to 
Robin for crab bait, she ’s dat triflin’. Den 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 109 

here she comes honeyin’ ’round Keziah ar- 
ter’ards to git her up a dinner out o’ m iffin ’ 
’t all. Dat ’s a ole trick o’ Mis’ M’riar’s, 
mine yo’ ! 

“Minnit I sot eyes on her cornin’ in de 
kitchen, I knowed ; but sho ’s yo’ bawn, Ke- 
ziah ’s ’nough for her. To clar de trac’ an’ 
git my dander up I jes’ steps on Eb’nezer’s 
tail (dat cat’s tail is powerful like a trig- 
ger), when bang ! goes Eb’nezer froo de win- 
der, right into de rice-puddin’, sot out on 
de bench to cool. 

“ 4 Why, Keziah ! ’ says Mis’ M’riar, like 
she was ’stonished. 

44 4 Oh, dat ’s all right, honey,’ sez I ; 4 dar 
goes de res’ o’ de dinner. He’p yo’se’f, 
Eb’nezer, to whut ’s lef’ in de dish,’ sez I ; 
4 dey ain’t ’nough lef’ to go ’round.’ 

44 4 Mussy me ! ’ sez she ; 4 what we gwine 
do ’bout dinner now ? ’ sez she. 

44 Sez I, 4 1 spec’ I kin git some scrapin’s 
off dat ar ham bone to fry. Den dar ’s de 
crabs to bile, arter Robin ketches ’em ; we 
mus’ n’t forgit de crabs Robin gwine to 
ketch,’ sez I. 


110 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ She neber tetches ’em, mine yo’, ’case 
dey dead sho to gib her de middlin’ poorlys, 
crabs is ! As for de kitchen, dey gwine to 
eat pizen fust.” 

The old woman laughs till the tears roll 
down her cheeks. Mary whirls her arms 
about her head like a windmill in a storm. 

“ The miskayties is afther havin’ me ate, 
the villins. Shoo ! whish — sh ! ” and the 
precious pipe is sent spinning through mid- 
air like a clay pigeon. 

The smoker is sober in an instant ; she 
regards the luckless Mary with looks of rage 
and disgust. 

“ Jes’ lemme cotch yo’ tryin’ to knock my 
head off, Mary Muldoon ! Git ’long wid 
you into de house, whar yo’ b’longs. Who 
axed yo’ out here, anyways ? ” 

Keziah clutches her mosquito bar with 
one hand, and shakes her fist. 

“ It ’s de mussy o’ de Lord if dat blessed 
pipe ain’t all broke up to smash an’ grains. 
I ’spise. a fool. Leetle wuss, an’ ye won’t 
be fittin’ company for a tukkey-buzzard.” 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. Ill 

Mary loosens the bow-knots into which 
she has so carefully tied herself, and slips 
off the wheelbarrow. 

“ Whisht, Keziah ! go.aisy ; here ’s daddy 
Hriggus,” — in a hurried whisper, — “ an’ 
it ’s mesilf that ’ll foind the poipe intirely. 
How ’s uncle Laz’rus ? ” turning to the new- 
comer with great cordiality ; “ for pardon’s 
sake, don’t shtep a shtep till I ” — 

The girl gropes about the grass on hands 
and knees, patting the turf in places. 

“ Beloike it give a le’p forninst the fince,” 
— peering beneath and behind it. “ Bedad, 
thin, an’ it ’s mesilf has it, an’ divil the 
warse for the slip.” 

A figure done in charcoal looms out of 
the shadows, and pauses before the smoke- 
house door, — a figure bowed with the bur- 
den of age and long service, stooping, and 
bearing grievously upon a staff. He lifts 
his hat with an old-time grace that well be- 
comes his white hairs and venerable mien. 

“ Ladies, your sarvant ! an’ wishin’ ye de 
highest degree o’ salute. Howdy, sister 
Keziah, — howdy ? ” 


112 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ On’y tol’ble, praise de Lawd ! How ’s 
yo’se’f, brer Laz’rus ? ” 

“ Po’ly, ma’am, po’ly. De shakes an’ de 
rheum’tiz ain’t de bes’ o’ frien’s in de bes’ o’ 
wedders ; but I ’clar’ for it, dis las’ ’tack o’ 
miz’ry has ’bout wore me to fiddlestrings.” 

The old man finds in the crown of his hat 
a startling bandanna, with which he mops 
his face. 

“ J es’ let airy one o’ dem symptoms kitch 
a-holt o’ yo’ jints an’ start ’em to cree- kin ; 
jes’ wait twel de marrer gits to dribblin’ out 
yo’ bones, an’ yo’ whole systence is right 
nat’rally ’ranged, — better quit wrastlin’ 
right dar. Better jes’ tie up yo’ leetle passel 
to wunst, an’ git ready for de chariot when 
it calls, an’ den step in an’ go up to glory.” 

“ Ain’t dat a nice hankercher, Mary ? ” says 
Keziah, with an amiable desire to distract 
his thoughts ; “ air it yaller, or air it red ? 
My ole eyes don’t ’mount to much, but it 
feels sof’ as silk. It ’s gwine to make a 
lubly head - hankercher some o’ dese days, 
arter brer Laz’rus done wid it.” 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 113 

This delicate hint is lost on their visitor. 
He folds the bandanna evenly, smoothing 
out the wrinkles, and restores it to its place 
with deliberation. This done, he balances 
his staff carefully in a niche near the smoke- 
house door, settles himself comfortably on 
his half of the doorsill, and groans piously. 

“ Afflictions is wery prev’lent dis season, 
ladies. M-m ! M-m ! Fustly an’ fo’mostly 
dar wus de Baptis’ meetin’-’ouse kitch afire de 
bery nex’ day arter de spring cleanin’. Shuh ! 
Me an’ brer Bim’lech could ha’ stomped it 
out easy as wink one eye ; but oh, no ! dat 
ain’t no kind o’ ways to put a fire out. 
Fotch in de hose an’ de injines, — dat ’s de 
way ; slosh de warter ober de pews an’ de 
pulpit ; slommuk up de whitewash walls, 
’ca’se ye can ’pend on Laz’rus Driggus to 
slick ’em up ’gin. He ’s got ’ligion, Laz’rus 
has ; he ain’t none o’ de sprinkled kind, — 
he ’s been dipped. So pass ’long de water 
buckets an’ de hose, brer Bim’lech.” The 
old man is so overcome by the nature of his 
reflections that he groans again and wipes 
his eyes. 


114 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


“ An’ niver a rid cint to ye for the elbow 
grease ? ” Mary asks, with concern. 

“ Elbow grease, honey ? Not much, ’sc usin’ 
a hunk o’ fat pork an’ a cold tater an’ de 
trashy eend of a corn dumplin’ and de dreen- 
in’s o’ de teapot. An’ it ’s 4 Sot right down 
whar you is, ole man ! no use gwine home to 
git yo’ dinner.’ Tarvern po’ch, ladies, mind 
ye ; and de eas’ wind a-borin’ holes in yo’ 
ole karkis for to let in de shakes an’ de 
rheum’tiz ! ” The old man stretches out his 
withered, work-worn hand with a piteous 
gesture. 

Mary’s tender heart is stirred. There is 
a sudden discharge of syllables to be found 
in no tongue but Mary’s. Keziah’s gutturals 
and mutterals are equally effective. The old 
man permits himself to be consoled. He 
clasps his shrunken knees and continues, — 

“ Neber you fret, honey. It ’s de Lawd 
A’mighty dat ’s gwine settle dat little bill for 
Laz’rus Driggus, an’ dis chile ain’t a-gittin’ 
hisself into no puspisperation a-groanin’, — 
no, sah ! Trus’ de Lawd A’mighty to settle 
it for Laz’rus.” 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 115 

The old man gazes solemnly at the women 
as he makes this profession of faith. Ke- 
ziah’s mutterals take on a softened tone. 
Lazarus continues, — 

“ Arter de meetin’-’ouse gits onto its legs 
agin, Gen’ral Dalrymple ’lows dat his hack 
fence is a-peelin’, an’ nary a widjel but Laz- 
’rus gwine lay a finger to it.” 

Keziah smokes in short sentences, and 
grunts approval. The old man winks com- 
fortably, and addresses his further remarks 
to some invisible being. 

“ Yes, sah. Well, sah, I gits me to work 
’mejit. I mixes me up de bucket o’ white- 
wash, and I sets it on de cellar door to 
sizzle. Den I slicks up my breshes an’ I 
packs my dinner-pail, all handy for de 
mawnin’. 

“ ’Fore de broke o’ day, here comes ’long 
de rheum’tiz. Fust it cotch me in de 
spine o’ my backbone, — it cotch me, sah, an’ 
gimme a twis’ ; an’ den, oh, Lawdy mussy ! 
den I knowed for sartain de debbil broke 
loose an’ come to town. Bimeby de shakes 


116 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


tunes up an’ dances a jig ; rheum’tiz jines in 
wid a wicious wiggle, twel — I ain’t tellin’ 
yer no lie — dar wus skurce ’nough lef’ 
o’ Laz’rus Driggus to make a ’spectable 
fun’ral.” 

“ Dat las’ ’tack done yo’ good, anyhow,” 
says Keziah, encouragingly. “ Me an’ Mary 
was ’sputin’ ’bout ye as ye was cornin’ down 
de lane. Gittin’ as spry an’ sassy as a liz- 
ard, wid dat spankin’ -new walkin’ - stick. 
Whar yo’ git dat stick fum, uncle ? ” 

The old man takes his staff in both hands, 
and smoothes the handle affectionately. 

“ Gen’l Jawnson gimme dis ; it ’s sho’ 
’nough hick’ry. De gen’l is out an’ out 
qual’ty, yo’ better b’lieve. He ain’t none 
o’ dem light an’ triflin’ no ’count sal’ratus 
biskits made up wid skim milk and a dab 
o’ pork-drippin’ for short’nin’s, — no, sah ! 
He ’s de kind dat ’s riz wid yeas’ dat was riz 
’fore dat, — dah ’s qual’ty for ye ! Plenty o’ 
cream in him, an’ de wery bestest Firginny 
flour ; baked slow an’ stiddy, wid a lubly up- 
per crust onto him ; — dat ’s Gen’l Jawnson.” 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 117 

The portrait is drawn to the life ; the 
women are mute with wonder. The artist is 
conscious of a leap in their esteem, and is 
proportionately consequential. 

He searches his pockets and finds a small 
round box. This he shakes gently, and taps 
twice or thrice according to rule. After an 
impressive pause, he uncovers it and offers 
its contents to Keziah. 

“ He’p yo’se’f to a pinch, ma’am, an’ den 
bust out a-weepin’. 1 reckon yo’ ’ll find dat ’s 
quality, too ! ” 

The box is of metal, white and glister- 
ing. The lady sidles up close, and examines 
the precious object by the light of her pipe ; 
she is profoundly moved, but had rather 
perish than say so. 

“ ’Pears like it mought be silver, Laz’rus ; 
is yo’ sho’ ’t ain’t washed ? ” 

The old man rolls his yellow eyeballs till 
they gleam. He tries to speak, but words 
come slowly. 

“Wash! M-m, h-m ! Wash! Woman, 
whar yo’ git yo’ fotch-up dat yo’ dunno 


118 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


wash fum solid ? Wus yo’ de las’ pickin’s 
o’ de cohnfield, or did yo’ come out’n de 
ma’sh ? ” 

His hostess surveys him with bitter cold 
dignity. 

“ Don’t yo’ dar’ to look at me in dat tone 
o’ woice, Laz’rus Driggus ; I objec’s to it. 
For a ’fessin’ Christian, an’ one dat ’s been 
dipped, yo’ gits yer dander up mons’ous 
easy. Fotch-up? M-m, h-m! Fotch-up ! I 
want yer to un’erstan’, ’stinctly, dat all yo’ 
say I is, you is ’em. Yo’ ’spec’s me to 
b’lieve ” — 

“ For pardon’s sake, go aisy,” prays Mary ; 
“ it ’s chrazy ye are, I doubt. Whisht, 
now ! ” 

“ He ’spec’s me to b’lieve de gen’l gib him 
dat snuff-box too, an’ a kag o’ snuff to go 
wid it,” — hotly ; “ nex’ news it ’ll be a gold 
toofpick an’ a black silk brumberill ! Huh ! 
I reckon it’ s nigh ’bout time I sot my 
muffles for breakwhish. . . . Who ’s dat 
hollerin’ up yonder dis time o’ night ? ” 

An electric figure appears in the kitchen 


TWO STUDIES IN CHARCOAL. 119 

doorway, and a clear young voice comes 
thrilling through the stillness. 

“ Keziah ! O Keziah ! I ’ve got some- 
thing good for you.” 

Robin’s words turn the current of the two 
vessels of wrath. The aged vessel restores 
his treasures to their slits and spaces, reaches 
for his staff, and with an effort gets upon 
his feet again. 

“ De bes’ o’ frien’s mus’ part, ma’am. 
’Scusin’ de liberty, I must fall to risin’ ! ” 

The other vessel, but by no means the 
weaker, rises to the occasion. She removes 
the mosquito bar, — by this time a wreck, — 
readjusts her “ head - hankercher,” shakes 
out her apron, and faces him. 

“Better look out ’bout dat solid silver 
snuff-box, brer Driggus, when de chariot 
calls ; ole sarpent powerful cunnin’. If yo’ 
ain’t keerful when yo’ ties it up into dat 
leetle passel dat ’s gwine up to glory wid 
yo’, it mought drap eendwise out’n de cor- 
ner!” 


CHAPTER YII. 


ANDY. 

This dear old house lies so near the shore 
of our little stream that its very feet bathe 
daily in the flowing tide ; so near that when 
Goldbarr’s prize geese break jail on the 
other side and come scuffling across to seek 
their fortune, I can toss into their gaping 
throats luscious morsels without so much as 
stirring from my old Dutch chair on the 
veranda. 

Their leader is a pompous old graybeard ; 
he wears spectacles, and lisps. They bob 
their forelocks, and dip to me old-fashioned 
courtesies. I make my acknowledgments 
with both hands extended. 

In their struggles to-day to gobble up 
more than is good for them, they forget the 
enemy is upon them. Robin is in their 


ANDY. 121 

wake, poling his sharpie. He whisks off his 
cap and hails me. 

“ Hollo ! Chuck us a few ! ” 

I have a lapful of buns. I aim for the 
cap, and fling several into it cleverly. 

“ Good shot ! ” cries the boy. He makes 
a mouthful of the biggest bun, crams the 
rest into his pistol pocket, — that dearest 
joy of all short breeches, — and makes for 
the geese. They suddenly see the error of 
their ways, and, with one quack, turn tail. 
They want no more buns, — not they ; they 
want to go home. 

Robin dashes after them, making the air 
dense and yet denser with coils of rope, 
chum, crab - bait, — anything, by way of 
argument. 

I watch the chase with pain and grief, for 
my sympathies are all with the fugitives. 
The enemy is gaining upon them; he has 
nearly clutched the hindmost, an ancient 
gander, and a mighty bird of valor. With 
a desperate lunge, the boy comes sprawling 
across the boat. Over goes the crab-basket, 


122 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

out swarm the crabs, and into the stream 
goes Robin with unhappy dispatch. 

“ Oh, blame it ! ” he groans ; “ what a 
go!” 

The geese rend the air with yells of laugh- 
ter. They make great mouths at him, and 
are in an ecstasy. 

Poor Robin ! He gathers himself up, 
gazes ruefully at the last one of his precious 
crabs as it scrambles over the stern, seizes 
the oarlock, and swings himself in again, — 
a sorry, shabby likeness of himself. 

I would not laugh, for a fortune ; on the 
contrary, I call the corners of my mouth to 
order, make a trumpet with both hands, and 
shout with all my breath, “ Robin ! Robin ! 
how about Fetch and the beach wagon and 
the ‘ Home ’ boys and a run to Ocean 
Beach?” 

“ All right, m’m, and we ’ll take Andy.” 

Three good strokes bring the sharpie 
ashore, where it is made fast above high- 
water mark. Suddenly down he drops be- 
hind the boat. Should Ryle Ryerson see 


ANDY. 


123 


him now, life henceforth were not worth the 
living. Ryle is crossing the bridge with a 
wheelbarrow-load of clams ; they are for the 
House of Goldbarr. His back is turned to 
the boy, but not till the old fisherman is out 
of sight does Robin show any sign of life. 

Presently there rushes past me a young 
hurricane of wind and wet, scattering in all 
directions the buns, and overturning my 
half-won game of Patience. Over they go, 
and away goes Robin, slip-slopping the hall 
and stairs, all heedless of Mary’s lamenta- 
tions. 

“ Arrah, begorra, ye bad b’y ! an’ me joost 
afther scroobin’ ’em agin Soonday. Wait 
till I ketch yer ! ” 

If Mary waits till then, my little man is 
safe. He has winning ways, has Robin. 
He has only to cuddle up close, and call her 
by the sweet baby-name he gave her when 
he was a small scrap in her arms, and he 
may have her loving blue eyes for marbles, 
and welcome. 

Among our gentle friends at the Seaside 


124 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


Home, none so gentle and sweet as the little 
hunchback, Andy. A scanty scrap of hu- 
manity is he, — a morsel of deformity. But 
what a face ! How pathetic of suffering ; 
how eloquent of suffering overcome ! 

Who can read between the lines of his 
sensitive mouth ? Who can read the lesson 
of heroic resolve, of patience, of resigna- 
tion ? Eyes wherein there is no guile ; eyes 
that are earnest, faithful, and loving ; eyes 
with power given them to see beyond the 
weeping and the waiting. A brow that will 
wear a crown of rejoicing one day, as man- 
ifest as the Peace of God that rests upon it 
now. 

He is but nine years old — nine steps in 
the scale of life. Faltering steps are they, 
not one of which could count for good mea- 
sure. When we lift him into his place on 
the driver’s seat beside the giant Robin, he 
looks the wraith of Tiny Tim ! 

Robin is very gentle with Andy ; he in- 
trusts to him the ends of the reins, and even 
the whip when Fetch lapses into a re very. 


AND Y. 


125 


The little fellow is almost overwhelmed by 
his responsibilities. He asks questions, and 
ventures his own small views till his face is 
aflame with excitement and glee. My ten- 
der-hearted boy is always mindful of that 
dreadful hunch ; he puts his helpful arm 
around the little body, and cuddles him 
sidewise. 

Andy likes best the drive to Moratika. 
This is a hamlet five miles east of us, on the 
bay shore, — a cluster of rude huts on the 
water’s edge, wherein such homely arts as 
seine netting and carpet weaving are plied 
in winter time, when sea craft is of scant 
avail. 

In the smallest of these huts dwells a lit- 
tle old gentlewoman whom the country folk 
call aunt Dorothy. Her house is an asylum, 
a hospital, a life-saving station ; the hapless, 
the homeless, and the hungry find shelter 
and succor within her gates. 

She is a woman for whom adversity and 
the contradiction of sinners decreed an emp- 
ty, useless life, but whose great heart and 





126 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


pure spirit are stronger than fate : a woman 
of faculty ; patient, reasonable, untiring ; 
whose nearest friends are among the friend- 
less, and who holds the lives of many in the 
hollow of her slender hand. 

The shiftless and the incapable are the 
“ Lord’s little ones,” she says, and must be 
treated with distinction. Hot and savory 
food served on porcelain and fair linen 
is barely worthy of such guests ; nothing 
common nor unclean may be offered. It is 
one of the cardinal principles of her life 
that vice and vagrancy are not checked by a 
diet of broken victuals served on broken 
platters ; nor can she be convinced of the 
expediency of refuse for diseased bodies. 
Outcasts from love and trust and joy must 
be nourished and cherished and comforted ; 
and always at such feasts, she, the Lord’s 
handmaiden, girds herself and serves them. 

Our little hunchback is her heart’s de- 
light. As soon as we arrive she takes pos- 
session of him, and exhibits with pride the 
latest addition to her family. This time it 


ANDY. 


127 


happens to be a decrepit old mastiff, which 
once had been shot and left for dead, had 
crept to her door from far away and knocked, 
had been welcomed, soothed, and healed. 
He is now in charge of three blind mites 
that will some day grow up to be kittens. 

The mastiff, the kittens, and other crip- 
ples form a body-guard about the dear old 
lady ; they protect her with their lives and 
fortune. 

The little lad is in his heart akin to these 
forlorn creatures, — he knows just what to 
say to them ; they look into his eyes and 
know he is their friend. Even the small 
wild things of the woods come to him easily 
and nestle in his arms ; they never question 
his good-fellowship. 

Our visit ended, aunt Dorothy remembers 
a certain earthen jar on the top shelf in her 
wee storeroom. This is hauled down and 
rummaged; the result is a paper bag of 
goodies for Andy, including cakes in ravish- 
ing variety. 

To see that frail little claw fumbling for 


128 RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 

the cake with a raisin in it, — to see it re- 
move the raisin and put it hack into the 
deepest depth of the bag (for this is too 
precious to be eaten recklessly) ; to see him 
in silent meditation between the mouthfuls, 
and know he is blessing each one with a 
special grace, like little birds drinking ; to 
see him guard the precious crumbs in that 
morsel of a calico handkerchief, whose bor- 
der is glorious with every known letter of 
the alphabet, and then furtively and wist- 
fully devour each crumb when nobody is 
looking, — ah, the pathos of it ! 

As we drive through the gateway and 
over the grounds up to the Home, Andy has 
the reins. He is drawn up to his full 
height, — how big he feels ! The boys and 
girls crowd about, eager to be of use, — to 
hold Fetch’s head, to carry in the parcels, 
and, above all, to lift Andy down. Then 
we linger till the little fellow has invited a 
dozen or more of his best friends to a lawn 
party at Ingleside for Tuesday afternoon. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A GARDEN PARTY. 

There was no garden party on Tuesday 
for Andy. Rain, mist, fog, east winds, and 
other rowdies made up a surprise party, and 
invited themselves to Ingleside for the day. 
They had a good time, and so did we ; these 
boisterous, rough-weather creatures are cro- 
nies of ours. 

The little people at the Home have had 
to wait till to-day for their fun ; but the 
day is worth waiting for. Nature has had 
her face washed till it shines ; her tresses 
have a golden sheen from the sunlight ; her 
perfumes are as delicate as the breezes that 
waft them. 

As I sit on the piazza, shaking hands 
with myself for being alive, something with 
a round head and plump body comes hurt- 


130 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

ling through the open, and bounces into my 
lap. The thing may he an exhilarated 
champagne cork, but it feels like a certain 
dear boy I know. 

“ Owch ! who you pinching ? Nathan ’s 
back from the Home, Mamma, and the 
children are coming at four, so that ’s fixed.” 

“ Delightful ! Where shall we put the 
table for this party ? ” 

The champagne cork is sober directly; 
that round head can be relied on in matters 
of business. 

“ Lemme see. Not in the house, we set- 
tled that last time. Piazza won’t do either 
— everybody squinched up, and everything 
bundling into the dirt ; no, indeedy.” 

u Never you mind calling my best veranda 
names, sir ; it is a very particular friend of 
mine. How about the big apple-tree ? ” 
“Good. Nathan can swing the gypsy 
kettle there ; and we ’ll have a clambake, — 
you promised, you know. And oh, yes ! 
sure enough, I most forgot ‘ Aunt Sally.’ 
We ’ve got to have 4 Aunt Sally,’ whatever 
else we don’t have.” 


A GARDEN PARTY. 


131 


“ But, my blessed son, there is n’t time to 
make her, — that should have been done 
yesterday.” 

“ Time ! Why, oceans of time ; Mary ’ll 
help, and we can do it in two winks. All 
we want is the biggest bolster, and two pil- 
lows for arms, and I ’ll tease Keziah to lend 
us one of her old duds, — dresses, I mean, 
— the one she wears wash-days.” 

“ Lucky you brought that old false-face 
from home,” I say ; “ and Mary must get 
out her fly-flap bonnet : that will give the 
old lady quite an air of distinction ; mind 
you tie it on tight.” 

“ Yes, and all we ’ll have to buy for the 
whole thing is the clay pipe ; get one for 
a cent. Buster ’ll go to the store for it. 
‘ Aunt Sally ’ is the greatest game out.” 

“ How will you contrive to stand her up ? ” 
I ask. 

“ Easy, for we ’ll sit her down, — set her 
in an armchair. The Fitz-Jenkins’s 4 Aunt 
Sally ’ went all wobbly, — she would n’t 
stand up any which-a-way ; looked like an 


132 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


old drunken woman going off to the station- 
house.” 

“ Well, well, I ’m willing. But you and 
Nathan must be sure to build the camp-fire 
and start it first thing after dinner ; by four 
o’clock there ’ll be a bed of coals fit for a 
barbecue.” 

“ What ’s a barbecue ? ” demands this small 
person ; “ a barbecue ! huh ! I guess not ! 
Tell you what, though,” — with a sudden 
thought : “ we ’ll cook flapjacks on my new 
griddle. Now, lovely mamsey, don’t go and 
make a fuss, we can do it just as ea-sy. Stir 
’em up in the watering-pot — the new big one, 
you know, — and they ’ll pour through the 
spout like a blue streak ; and Buster is going 
to fry ’em, — no trouble about Buster. Talk 
about picnics ! ” with an ecstatic squeal. 

“ But wait a minute, Robin, I don’t 
understand. Do you mean my new watering- 
pot, — my new one ? ” 

“ Why, yes, m’m,” — ingenuously ; “ old 
one ’s no good — it ’s busted ; got a hole in 
it, — a norful big one, — and the batter ’d 


A GARDEN PARTY. 


133 


leak out quicker ’n scat 1 You can take the 
sprinkler out, though; we only want the 
spout.” 

“ Take the sprinkler out ! ” I echo help- 
lessly. 

The boy bursts into peals of laughter ; he 
laughs till he whoops. Then, without a 
note of warning, he throws his heels high 
over his head and walks on his hands to the 
fence, where he hooks himself to the top rail 
by his toes. Before I can cry out to him, 
he has pulled his supple body into shape 
again with a comical twist, and is making 
disrespectful faces at his mother, — tills good 
comrade of mine. 

“ This kind of a day puts lots of pop into 
a fellow. Hullo ! here ’s a good one ; ” and 
over he goes like the down of a thistle. 

“ Now, Robin, listen to me, and leave the 
rest of the popovers till the children come. 
Here comes the tea-table, so please postpone 
all monkeyshines. If everything is to hap- 
pen out-doors, everybody must fetch and 
carry.” 


134 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


When Andy gives a party at Ingleside, 
our handmaidens are angels and ministers 
of grace ; but not Nathan. We regret to 
admit he is not in harmony with “ pamperin’ 
up a lot o’ beggars.” So he swings the 
gypsy pot with an ill grace, and drags the 
precious tea-table over the grass by one leg 
in a cruel manner; scowls and sniffs and 
looks dangerous. 

The women have their opinion of Nathan ; 
they heap coals of wrath on his offensive 
head by crowding good things, more and yet 
more, upon this long-suffering and much 
put-upon table. They never run so gladly as 
when they run for the Lord’s little ones. 
They are of kin with aunt Dorothy. Great, 
honest, bountiful hearts are theirs, — merci- 
ful, loving, and kind. 

This is to be Andy’s party; come to 
think of it, most of them are Andy’s. The 
little hunchback sits at one and of the long 
table in high state. You might not perceive 
him at all but for the friendly boosting of 
hair pillows, and the bracing of a wooden 
settle turned up endwise. 


A GARDEN PARTY. 135 

The little fellow believes himself to be at 
such times a potentate, enthroned, and sur- 
rounded by loyal subjects. And so he is, 
poor little lad ! It is very touching, the 
homage he receives from them all. 

The tea-table is as imposing as the host 
himself. It is dressed in its finest finery, 
is worldly minded and wealthy. 

Buster is ubiquitous ; he minds the clam- 
bake and other cookery, while the company 
mind him. His helpful loving-kindness at 
these times is a pretty touch in his rough 
boy-nature ; although, in truth, who could 
ever be rough with Andy ? When he lifts 
his eyes with quiet gaze, and shows the depth 
and breadth of Heaven’s peace within, we 
catch the radiance of his spiritual face, and 
our own eyes are without a shadow. 

Sister Angelica comes too ; it could not 
be a real party without Sister Angelica. 
The boys are hauled up to “make their" 
manners” to the lady. They make them 
with shy and gentle grace, heads hung low 
and eyes downcast. 


136 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


They recover themselves by and by, when 
flapjacks are flying in the air, and “ Aunt 
Sally’s ” pipe declines to come to terms upon 
any terms. 

I like boys. They hit out from the shoul- 
der, and they never flinch when bogus pipes 
and Aunt Sally’s and other humbugs are to 
be punished. 

The boys go into the games with heart 
and soul ; it would do yours good to see 
them. As for me, I am not watching them 
just now. I am rapt in contemplation of a 
beard that is wafting to and fro in the even- 
ing breeze ; it is to windward of Andy. 

Of all beards that ever grew to deface a 
mortal man, this beard is the most grew- 
some ; just that, — grewsome. It belongs 
to our good doctor, who is coming over the 
lawn. A certain School of Philosophy 
teaches us that all spontaneous outgrowths 
of nature reveal their divine impulse, and 
are instinct with sublimity. I palsy my wits 
with conjecture as to the sublimity in the 
doctor’s heard. 


A GARDEN PARI f. 


187 


His name, however, is sublime. It is not 
a syllable less than Chrysantho Pestolido, — 
a name that concerns the unlettered folk in 
his parish as little as his birthplace and ped- 
igree. To them he is “ Dr. Pestle,” or even 
“old Pestle,” and comes from “furrin” 
parts ! He is a native of Corfu, a man of 
accomplishments and ability, a philosopher, 
a poet, a scholar, and a gentleman. 

And yet, with all his culture, he is not 
unhappy here. He does not chafe at his 
bonds of poverty and obscurity, does not 
disdain his meed of homely loaves and fishes, 
but adjusts his walk and conversation to the 
gauge of his environments. 

When Andy is host we are as sure of the 
doctor as of the party itself. The little 
hunchback is the tender nerve in his heart. 
A curious relation exists between these two. 
The child is elder brother, counselor, con- 
science keeper ; the man protests, argues, — 
surrenders. The child can solve so easily 
the problems of death and life, faith and 
duty, — problems that the earnest man 


138 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

continues to search out carefully, and with 
tears. 

When our good doctor is here, Andy’s 
crutch is laid aside. He lifts the crumpled 
form to a snug crotch in his shoulder, bid- 
ding him 44 catch hold anywhere,” and then 
marches off like a grenadier. Now you see 
the man at his very best. 

Andy does exactly as he is told. He 
44 holds on ” with a deathless grip — by the 
doctor’s tawny thatch, by his ears, by the 
immortal beard, if needs be. The children 
fall into line at the word of command, and 
44 forward march.” 

44 Where now, old man ? ” 

“Feed the pigs,” is the prompt order; 
44 and Buster ’ll carry the pail. Come along, 
Buster.” 

44 Here, honey,” says a wholesome voice at 
Buster’s elbow, — 44 here ! holt yo’ pail close 
up, an’ fotch along dese flapjacks. Flop ’em 
in, sonny ; an’ here ’s a mossel o’ corndodgers, 
too, jes’ to put dere mouf in tas’. Dem pigs 
ain’t been fed sence de las’ time; I saved 
’em up a puppose for Andy.” 


A GARDEN PARTY. 


139 


The pigs are delightful ; they show off to 
order like prize babies. They are as sensi- 
tive to flattery as our horse, Fetch, and they 
deserve even more ; for there is a gilt edge 
to their arts and graces which he may never 
hope to attain. Fetch is a thoroughbred, 
and we admire him much ; but the palpable 
fact remains that he gobbles a lump of sugar 
at one snap, while either of those gourmets 
— yclept pigs — will take a peppermint in 
three nibbles, and never drop a grain ! 

The children hang over the top rails of 
the sty by their eyelids. If they wink once, 
they are lost. 

Prize babies, indeed ! They are noth- 
ing less than living wonders, those pigs. 
Whether they settle themselves on their hind 
legs for a little conversation, or wink one ear 
to point a joke, or cover their faces with 
both paws in paroxysms of peek-a-boo, ’t is 
all one. They are living wonders, and their 
names are Nip and Tuck. 

“ Shake hands, Nip. Shake a paw, sir ! ” 
and Andy extends his own. Tuck has half 


140 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


a mind to shake it himself, being of a grasp- 
ing disposition, but nudges his fellow and 
yields to him the palm. Nip performs his 
best courtesy, and pledges his visitor hand- 
somely. 

The boys are uproarious ; this is some- 
thing like. But hold on a minute. 

64 Up with you, — up, you black rascal ! 
Make a speech.” 

The living wonders climb up on their hind 
legs, clear their throats, and, with Robin as 
interpreter, begin : — 

“Would somebody kindly get the rake 
from behind the barn door, and scratch 
gently? Not there, a little farther down, — 
so ! ah, thanks, de-licious ! ” and over they 
go like a couple of ninepins. Over they go 
on their sleek sides, eyes closed, their very 
tails out of crimp in the abandon of the 
moment. “ Good grief ! but it ’s ’eavenly.” 

It is the little hunchback who wields the 
rake. He was lifted down from the doctor’s 
shoulder long ago, and has a reserved seat 
on the trough. Those sleek sides know him 
well. 


A GARDEN PARTY. 


141 


Nip and Tuck are not the only living 
wonders at Ingleside ; there are also Bang 
and the billy-goat. 

“ You go, Buster,” says Robin, “ and untie 
Billy; he won’t buck you.” Robin would 
go for him himself, but if they are to have 
a race, he has to set up the hurdles. 

Buster is not so sure about that billy- 
goat ; but — 

“ Buck ! huh ! only let him try it on, 
that ’s all,” — with a careless swagger. No- 
body could suspect those sturdy knees of 
quaking as he goes in quest of the brute. 

“ Grass is all a muck from the rain,” 
croaks Nathan, who appears on the scene 
with the milk-pail ; he and another living 
wonder will have a confidential interview 
presently. 

Sister Angelica hopes the children will 
not get their feet wet, and thinks may be 
they better wait till another fair day. Rob- 
in’s own are turned up immediately for in- 
spection. 

“Feet wet? Fiddle! Just as dry as 
chips ; feel ’em ! Nathan ’s an old fuss.” 


142 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


Wet or dry, the prayers in these upturned 
faces are not to be withstood. Here come 
Bang and Billy, careering over one another ; 
we guess the grass is pretty dry! We’ll 
risk it. 

This is a race as is a race. 

“ Hie on, Bang ! Go it, Billy ! Hip, hip, 
hur-ra-ay ! ” The boys would holloa louder, 
if their throats were bigger. 

“ Billy ’s ahead ! I bet on Billy.” Bets 
are running ruinously high. 

“ Bang ’s ahead ! Look out there ! How ’s 
that for a jump ? Hie on, Bang ! ” The 
excitement is intense. 

“ Bang ’s got it ! Bang ’s got it ! Hur-ra- 
a-ay ! ” The cheers are deafening. “ Good 
Bang ! Good dog ! ” and all hands are 
stretched out to pat the victor. Bang is 
used to praise. He wags applause in his 
own behalf quite naively. 

Sister Angelica says she is sure the chil- 
dren would like to see Robin’s little ban- 
tams, if it made nobody any trouble. 

“ Trouble ! No trouble ’t all ; they ’re 


A GARDEN PARTY. 


143 


right behind the dairy.” The children are 
nearly out of breath with shouting, but they 
scamper after Robin with all speed. 

“ They ’re keeping house here all by them- 
selves,” Robin says ; “ Nathan built their 
coop, — is n’t it fine ? See, Andy, the little 
mother is bobbing 4 How do ’ to you.” 

Andy bobs too. 44 What darling little 
chicks ! ” 

44 Did you ever see baby quail, Andy ? 
These little fellows are like baby quail, 
exactly.” Andy has no remembrance of 
quail, big or little, but he thinks they must 
be — exactly. 

44 But wait till you see my little ducky- 
daddies. I ’ve got nine of ’em. Here they 
are ! nine of ’em ; are n’t they just too cute 
for anything?” 

The ducks are spending the summer in a 
watering place in the vicinity of the dairy. 

“We had eleven, but the cat got two. 
Ebenezer got more than the ducks when 
Keziah found him out, — lie got a licking 
that ’ll last him for one while. Keziah held 


144 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


him by the tail and whaled him ; she beat 
him with a black-gum switch.” 

“ Poor kitty ! ” cries a loving heart ; 
“ poor old kit, he did n’t know no better.” 

“ Did n’t he though ? well, he knows bet- 
ter now” says downright Robin, “and he 
is n’t going to forget it in a hurry.” 

“ Where ’s their mother ? ” Andy asks. 

“ Have n’t any. The old hen got run 
over by a great lumbering farm wagon, — 
couldn’t get out of the way of it fast 
enough ; ducks don’t make very good 
mothers, you see,” — airing his small know- 
ledge with effect. “After that happened, 
Keziah said she ’d bring ’em up herself.” 

“ And does she ? ” The children are 
eagerly curious. 

“ Indeed she does ; I wonder she don’t 
tread on ’em sometimes, they ’re under her 
feet so.” 

“ But what ails their feet ? they ’re all 
made in one piece, sort o’.” 

“ Oh, that ’s all right,” the showman as- 
sures them with a superior air ; “ they swim 


A GARDEN PARTY. 


145 


with them. Don’t you want to take them 
up in your hands ? ” he adds kindly ; “ you 
won’t hurt ’em ; only see how funny and 
soft they feel.” 

The children make nests of their laps, 
and hold out trembling hands to take the 
downy little things. 

“ Look out, Andy,” exclaims the doctor, 
“ you ’ll drop ’em. Here, my boy, here ’s 
my soft hat ; it ’ll make the nicest kind of 
nest.” 

Who can measure the joy of these after- 
noons for these children? What a rich 
reaping of all good things is ours for so 
slight a sowing of human kindness ! 

The gentle sister says it is growing late, 
and sister Dorothea will wonder what has 
become of them. The children come up 
to “ the lady ” (they are not so dreadfully 
bashful this time), and “ make their man- 
ners ” all over again. “ The lady ” lifts the 
little hunchback up on her lap, and tells his 
friends their thanks must all be given to 
Andy. 


146 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


The little lad lends himself at once to the 
sentiment of the occasion : he is sure they 
have all had a good time, he has had such 
a good time himself. 

Their “ manners ” being made to the satis- 
faction of everybody, the old doctor presents 
arms to the little fellow. The look of trust 
and love in both their faces is beautiful. 
The man bends low to lift him, and when he 
rises to his feet again, Andy is on the broad 
shoulder that has carried him so often and 
so well, his poor little arm tightly clasped 
about the other’s head. They lead the pro- 
cession as always, the good sister and the 
little schoolmistress and Mr. Armstrong 
bringing up the rear. 

Dear little Andy ! Better arms than these 
and stronger shall bear thee up and away 
one day. Patience, dear lad ! patience ! 
God’s Angel of Life has already been given 
charge concerning thee 1 


CHAPTER IX. 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 

What a place to enjoy a storm is Ingle- 
side ! It is as snug and safe as a lighthouse 
off the coast. 

To-day the winds and waves are wild with 
glee, blowing great blasts of discord and 
rioting madly. Robin and I are as hilarious 
as they. We scan the clouds that are black 
and blue from the pummeling the winds are 
giving them ; we bare our heads to the first 
big drops, and when the deluge comes, we 
run for our lives. It is glorious ! 

The little schoolmistress passed us awhile 
ago on her way to the bluff. We called to 
her and protested, and entreated her hospi- 
tably, but in vain ; she just flashed a happy 
glance from her bonny gray eyes, shook her 
bright head, and darted away. 


148 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ Hear the thunder ! it ’s grand ! And 
suppose it does rain, who minds a wetting 
with a sky like that ? Don’t say a word, — 
I ’ve got to see it all ! ” The girl is as wild 
as any killdee, when a storm is gathering. 

The wind is in a gale, and the rain drives 
in slanting sheets. We snub noses against 
the window that commands the bluff, and 
are sure Miss Ethel ran under cover at 
Ryle’s. 

Robin prays fervently that I let him jump 
into his tights and out of the house for a 
shower-bath, — a caper I will not hear of. 
My boy can’t for the life of him see why 
he never can do like other boys, but — • 
“ Hullo ! here they are, see ’em run ! It ’s 
Mr. Armstrong ! ” 

“ Ethel, Ethel, you foolish child ; what 
on earth ! ” I shout to them from the open 
door as we strive to hold it. “ Run in, run ! 
Whew ! ” and the door is wrenched from 
our grasp by some wanton wind, and thrown 
rudely back upon its hinges. 

“ Don’t scold, please ; we could n’t help 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 


149 


it. Mr. Armstrong was out in his catboat 
when the squall struck him, and he had an 
awful time getting in, — perfectly awful. I 
saw the last of the struggle, and indeed for a 
minute I thought I had seen the last of 
him.” 

There is a hysterical break in her voice as 
she laughs and talks in a breath. 

“ Nonsense, not a bit of it,” he says 
lightly, laughing with her ; “ I saw it com- 
ing, and but for that cantankerous old cen- 
treboard ” — 

“Well, never mind centreboards or any- 
thing else but these wet clothes,” breaks in 
the careful housewife. “ Speaking of water- 
spouts, there is but one thing to be done 
with you, Mr. Armstrong, and that is ‘ Go 
home, sir,’ as we say to Bang. It ’s holding 
up a bit, and I am going to set you afloat 
again, for Robin’s tennis suit is never going 
to fit you in this wicked world.” 

“ Don’t be too sure of that,” he retorts, 
with a merry twinkle in his handsome eyes. 
“ I ’ve been in a tighter fix than in Robin’s 
tennis suit.” 


150 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


Robin measures those clerical limbs with 
his longest look, and doubts it exceedingly. 

“ But you can’t come in, all the same ; 
you can’t, because I ’m not going* to let 
you. You ’ll come back to tea, though ? ” 

“ Can’t be done, ma’am ; work to do to- 
night. I must n’t, really.” 

“ Yes, but soft crabs, really, — soft crabs, 
you know, and johnny kins. If it is n’t john- 
nykins, it ’s Maryland biscuits, crisp — and 
brown — and hot ; are you listening ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ And fresh butter, just churned, with not 
so much as a. taint of salt in it ; how does 
that sound ? ” 

“ Beguiling.” 

“ Keziah ’s a saint to-day,” puts in the 
small host, judicially. “ She went to the 
shout last night, so she ’s rolling out the 
moonshines that thin you can see right 
through any of ’em.” 

“ I am afraid, ma’am, — if you will ex- 
cuse me — I shall be obliged ” — the man 
speaks the words slowly — “ to accept ! ” 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 


151 


“ Hurry away, then. As for you, Ethel, 
you poor drowned baby, Keziah shall put 
you first in her big tin colander, and hang 
you afterwards on a peg to drip ; we ’ll 
manage you.” 

When the storm is ended and the school- 
mistress reappears in one of my best gowns, 
and the brilliant, buoyant sunshine is mak- 
ing an electric nimbus about the beautiful 
face of nature, we all rush out, and at once 
become a part of the universal jubilation. 
Everything has burst out laughing, and 
everything is talking at once, including the 
birds. Even the fish in the stream have 
exceeded their gifts and are playing at leap- 
frog ; and as to the frogs themselves, they 
are laughing at the burlesque till they are 
hoarse. 

The schoolmistress lingers in the arbor to 
watch the rainbow ; there the rector finds 
her. He is superlative in a worldly minded 
coat, whose cut is as unclerical as the loose 
collar and silken scarf that are about his 
shapely throat. The conventions of his 


152 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


calling — the mint, anise, and cummin — 
seem to this honest man to be of small ac- 
count. The weightier matters of the law, — 
cleanliness, godliness, brotherly kindness, 
charity, — these things are his priestly 
garments. 

Our young rector even dares to believe 
that the measure of a man’s fervor in spirit- 
ual things need not always be indicated by 
the amount of clear starch in his linen. 

“ The storm has set me to thinking, and 
I ’m weaving an allegory to tell my boys, 
Mr. Armstrong,” says the little schoolmis- 
tress, pointing to the rainbow. “ Does n’t 
that arch seem an arch of triumph, the 
triumph of a battle won ? I ’ve thought out 
already a tale of chivalry, — all about mail- 
clad warriors and the clang of armor ; the 
clash of battle-axe and spear, the flash of 
burnished shield, the blast of bugles.” 

“ I ’m coming to school that day, Miss 
Ethel ! ” 

“No boys admitted over twelve,” she 
says, coloring. “Besides, my battle is go- 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 153 

ing to end as this has ended — in perfect 
peace ! ” 

44 In perfect peace — like this,” he mur- 
murs ; the minister will wax sentimental, if 
he is not careful. 

After some musing she says softly, 44 If I 
could only scale the heights of that arch of 
triumph and find its keystone in Heaven ! 
But I was never a nimble climber at best ; 
I am apt to stumble sadly.” 

As she speaks, her eyes are eloquent. She 
leans against the trellis, one arm intertwined 
with the blush roses that cluster and climb 
above her head. 

44 Look there ! ” she cries ; 44 is n’t it beau- 
tiful?” 

44 It is indeed, most beautiful,” — but the 
man is not looking at the rainbow ; there is 
a quality in his tone that makes her glance 
at him quickly. 

“Don’t,” she falters, the blood stream- 
ing into her fair face and neck, — 44 please 
don’t ; and you would n’t if you could know 
how dreadfully silly I feel in all this bor- 
rowed finery.” 


154 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


The rector turns abruptly from the girl, 
and performs an obeisance to a figure in 
the foreground : a salaam most profound. 

“ Enter, gracious sovereign ! I salute the 
hem of your — tea-gown ! Permit me to 
offer you all the hospitalities of this wet 
settle, — pray be seated.” 

“ Good boy,” I say, not heeding this 
flourish, — “ good boy, to come. And I 
have come to tell you tea is ready, ditto soft 
crabs. Have either of you seen that boy 
of mine ? Robin ! — you Rob-in ! ” and two 
sturdy legs are seen twinkling over the 
clover lot, Bang at his heels. 

“ What a boy you are ! ” I cry, trying to 
frown but not succeeding very well. “ Look 
at your poor forehead; and all these wet 
curls. My blessed boy ! how dreadfully 
warm you are ! Where have you been ? ” 

“ Why, mamma, Nip and Tuck got out 
of the pen somehow, — Nathan must have 
left the garden gate open. Bang and I have 
had an awful time chasing ’em back, — 
have n’t we, you old rowdy-dow ? ” 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 155 

“ Your shoes too ! I thought they were 
too beautiful to last.” 

“ Don’t beat him this time, for my sake,” 
the minister begs ; “ Robin intends to leave 
off all his wicked ways forevermore with his 
wet shoes — I see it in his eyes — and lead 
a correct life, — eh, Robin ? ” 

An arm is slipped through mine, and a 
flushed cheek snuggles close to my elbow for 
all answer. Thus is discipline maintained 
at Ingleside. 

What a pretty thing is this bare tea-table 
in the west window of our home-room ! Its 
happiest bits of color are the truant sun- 
beams that should be abed and asleep by 
this time. They have loitered behind the 
others for a last game of hide and seek with 
the shadows of the linden leaves. The hoy- 
dens are chasing one another all over our 
very best doilies, and making faces at them- 
selves in the shining mahogany ; together 
they are the prettiest decorations of the 
table. The minister looks at the girl in the 
simple white gown, with the sweet-briar in 


156 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


her girdle, — looks at her with both eyes 
and all his heart, and does n’t agree with me 
at all. 

“ What exquisite raspberries ! ” she says ; 
“ are n’t they velvety ? ” 

“ Aunt Dorothy sent them to mamma out 
of her own garden,” — Robin is apt to speak 
up in meeting. “ Dr. Pestolido brought 
them. He had little Andy in the buggy 
with him. It ’s just a wonder if they got 
back before the rain.” 

“ What a sweet old shepherdess in rare 
old Dresden she is ! ” the minister says, 
helping himself to a crab ; “ I love aunt 
Dorothy.” 

“ That does n’t fit,” says Miss Ethel with 
decision. “ Try again ; nothing brittle or 
artificial about that beautiful old woman.” 

“ And I love somebody else ardently,” he 
goes on composedly, as he picks out the 
“ dead man,” and proceeds to emphasize the 
crab with a suggestion of cayenne, — “I 
love another,” — the schoolmistress does not 
lift her eyes from her plate, — “ the little 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 


157 


hunchback, Andy. When that little fellow 
comes to church, it is he, and not I, who 
preaches the sermon. The spiritual light in 
that face is marvelous sometimes, — a light 
that we can’t afford to hide under a bushel ; 
so I ’ve put him in one of the transept 
seats ” — 

“ Amen corner,” Robin explains. 

“ — that all who come in may behold the 
light. I conduct the service and Andy 
preaches the sermon.” 

“ I verily believe he does,” I rejoin. 
“ Ethel, my dear, you have the effect of 
wanting a cup of tea. No ? then you will, 
Mr. Armstrong ; two lumps, isn’t it ? ” 

“ I am afraid it ’s three,” — contritely ; 
“ but no cream this time, — I ’ll compromise 
upon cream.” 

The hostess counts the lumps as she drops 
them into the cup, then adds one more for 
largess. “ That,” she says, “ is the outward 
and visible sign of a good stepmother.” 
The rector pauses, cup in hand. 

“ I knew Ingleside possessed a poetic 


158 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


soul?” lie says, “the instant I tasted the 
butter.” 

“ You humbug ! And do you mean to say 
you were not convinced of it by the prevar 
lence of log - tires and the absence of a 
Baltimore heater ? ” 

He laughs. “ Yes, but the butter de- 
cided it.” 

“ Now that ’s very pretty of you, Mr. 
Armstrong ; we ’ll let you come again. 
Robin, give Mr. Armstrong a moonshine.” 

“ Take two, sir ; take ever so many ; 
mamma calls them ghosts.” 

“ Ghosts ? well, they are open to that 
objection ; a vain and fleeting show, these 
moonshines. Ghosts of what, Robin ? ” 

“ Ghosts of the biscuits, sir. Keziah 
makes ’em.” 

“ Does she ? ” Miss Ethel asks ; “ then do 
you think Keziah has another poetic soul ? ” 

“ A poetic soul, decidedly,” says the rec- 
tor, making a crescent of the dainty bit in 
his hand, “ and there comes another,” — 
looking up. 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 


159 


44 Why, so it is ; here ’s Dr. Pestolido ! ” 
exclaims the hostess. “ You delightful man ! 
come right in. Miss Ethel has reserved the 
very best seat for you, — beside her lovely 
self/’ 

44 Thanks, 4 faire ladye ; ’ too much honor, 
but I ’m not coming in. You are all coming 
out instantly to bathe in a sea of glory. 
The rainbow has issued a postobit, and old 
Sol is getting out some entirely new effects 
in poly chromatics, and ” — 

44 Stop him ! ” cries the 44 faire ladye ; ” “I 
just dare him to come through the window 
on those stilts. Mr. Armstrong, you ’re 
big ; you lift him down to our plane. Don’t 
hurt him ; lift him gently.” 

44 Stilts ! Where are they ? ” demands 
Eobin. 44 Old Pickaback has been making 
me a pair all summer ; stilts are the greatest 
fun out.” 

The young girl’s laugh is low and sweet. 
44 Never mind about the stilts, Eobin. Dr. 
Pestolido is telling us how fine the sunset 
is. He thinks we had better hurry out, if 
we want to see it.” 


160 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ I move that we all go down to the 
bluff,” Mr. Armstrong says, rising and look- 
ing very big in this low-ceiled room of ours. 
This man certainly has the courage of his 
inches. His shoulders are square, which 
lends a cubit to one’s stature invariably ; his 
head is set upon them grandly ; and the 
grace of lifting it just a little when he 
speaks to you renders his height superb. 

“Come, then,” says the hostess, springing 
up, — “ there goes my best cream pitcher ! 
— hurry everybody ; sunsets never stand on 
the order of their going.” 

The doctor’s superlatives are but compar- 
ative. There, upon a “ sea of glory,” is an 
open volume, whose pages are jeweled with 
opals, rubies, and sapphires, and whose text 
is illumined in characters of emerald and 
hyacinth and topaz. Pages on which are 
written precious promises in letters of liv- 
ing gold ; a volume bound and clasped by 
Heaven itself. 

' As we stand transfigured in the afterglow, 
we gaze at the mystery beneath us and be- 


AN AFTERNOON TEA. 


161 


yond, straining our mortal eyes to read 
between the lines of color and radiance. 
And as we gaze and wonder, the shadows 
are deepening, the jewels are fading — wan- 
ing from our yearning eyes, the volume is 
closing — closing — has closed; and the sea 
of glory is but a phantom of the night. 


CHAPTER X. 


EBENEZER. 

Nip and Tuck were brought to Ingleside 
in a feed-bag slung over Nathan’s shoulder. 
They began housekeeping in a firkin ; at the 
present rate of compound interest, the hogs- 
head has not yet been coopered that will 
hold either of them. 

They are black ; so very black that Na- 
than made the original remark that “ char- 
coal would make a white mark on ’em.” 

“ You mighty right, honey,” Keziah spoke 
up. “ Call ’em Soot an’ Smut, why don’t 
ye ? Kinder fits ’em.” 

“ Indeed and I won’t, then,” protested 
Robin. “ My pigs are going to have pretty 
names. I might name one of ’em after you, 
though, mammy,” with a wink at Mary. 

The knots in the old woman’s turban 


EBENEZER. 163 

leaped into life. “ On’y lemme cotch you 
gib my title to airy black rascal.” 

“ Stiddy there, old ’ooman,” said Nathan ; 
“ the boy ’s only gassin’.” Then, behind his 
hand to Robin, “ Better look out ; she ’ll 
rise on ye.” 

“ See ’em scramble for the bits o’ praties 
in the bonny clabber,” interposed Mary, with 
her ready Irish tact ; “ faix an’ it ’s nip an’ 
tuck ’twixt ’em, the little dhivils.” 

“ Nip and Tuck ! Why, Mary, you ’ve 
named the pigs. Hip-hip-hur-ray ! ” 

Robin insists that there is no more reason 
for pigs to be dirty than for that dandy. 
Fetch. So he turns the garden hose upon 
them (which they think as good a joke as 
the rain), while Buster brushes their coats 
till they shine, not forgetting to straighten 
out the wiggles in their tails. 

Keziah treats the matter with a fine con- 
tempt. “ Better quit yer foolin’ wid dem 
shotes ; it ’s gin Scriptur’ to wash ’em. Me 
an’ brer ’Bimlech was ’sputin’ ’bout dat wery 
p’int Sunday arternoon. Brer ’Bimlech 


164 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


’lows dat de potteraxes 1 in de ole Test’ment 
was ordered to let ’em waller. Pigs or 
hawgs, it makes no diffunce ; let ’em wal- 
ler.” 

To which false doctrine Kobin pays no 
heed. Nathan is directed to sweep out the 
pen and rake their bed as decently as Fetch’s 
own. This done, the ferule is brought out 
and school begins. 

Not only are they learned in the graces of 
polite life, but they are born wits, these pigs. 
When they lay their wicked heads together 
and twinkle both ears, something particular 
is going to happen. Next you know they 
have broken jail, like Goldbarr’s geese, and 
come wriggling out, cheek by jowl, bent 
on mischief. The chickens hie themselves 
to the seclusion of the hayloft. Ebenezer 
makes an interrogation point of his black 
body at first glimpse of the enemy, and de- 
scribes a circumflex accent over Keziah’s cir- 
cumference as she sits on a low cricket at 
the kitchen door. 


1 Patriarchs. 


EBENEZER. 


165 


If Bang were here he would improve their 
manners. He has made it his business to 
teach them their place and to see they keep 
it. To-day the rogues know as well as we 
that the dog is laid up for repairs. He had 
a difference of opinion with Ebenezer after 
breakfast with regard to certain rights of 
property. The finishing clause in Ebene- 
zer’s argument was convincing. Ebenezer’s 
plateful of delicate chicken - bones is still 
Ebenezer’s ; Bang’s share of the spoils are 
a well-trimmed ear, and a pair of eyes that 
promise to be blind to the faults of his dear- 
est foe for some little time to come. 

The one being at Ingleside the cat is 
afraid of is Keziah. His attitude to her is 
one of chilled distrust, arising from an un- 
pleasantness connected with a burlap bag 
of offensive memory. He may forgive her 
about dinner-time, when raw liver and skim- 
milk are being attractively displayed in 
patty-pans for mannerly black cats, but he 
cannot forget it; it is a personal matter 
with Ebenezer. 


166 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


When we first arrived at Ingleside the 
eat was in possession. Lest a doubt should 
linger in any mind as to his rights, he had 
measured his length — it is a long length — 
across the railing of the piazza. In his at- 
tempt to preserve his balance and the for- 
malities at once, he lost both, toppled over, 
and fell headlong. 

I am not fond of cats, and this one looked 
uncanny enough as he glared at me and 
vanished down cellar. 

Our landlord had not mentioned puss as 
an item in the lease, apparently regarding 
him as a part of the good-will and fixtures 
of the place. After two nights I mentioned 
it, — mentioned it to Ryle. I sent for him, 
and said gently but firmly that the cat must 
be dispossessed, — evicted, — transported, 
and that right early. 

“ Why, shorely, mum, shorely. I mis- 
trusted ye orter be kind o’ lonesome like, 
along o’ jest that leetle shaver o’ yourn, an’ 
I mought better throw Eb’nezer in for down 
weight, so to say ; but in course, mum — 


EBENEZER. 


167 


Here you, Eb’nezer ! Kitty ! Kitty ! Puss ! 
Here, pussy ! Pussy ! Git out, ye black 
varmint, ye ! Sc-scat! Swish ! ” 

A black zigzag bolted through the open 
cellar doors, whirled over the lawn in an ac- 
centuated frenzy, — Bang being an impor- 
tant feature of the frenzy, — and disap- 
peared in the gloaming. 

That ghost being laid, we set the house in 
order, closed the blinds, bolted the doors, 
and composed ourselves to slumber. 

In the second watch of the night came 
Ebenezer. He opened the siege with hand- 
springs and somersaults in surpassing vari- 
ety against the window screens, and when 
admonished with missiles, broke out in bawls 
and wauls, swearing freely. 

“ There, now ! what did I tell you, mam- 
ma?” murmured a sleepy voice from the 
trundle-bed ; “ Kyle ’s no good.” 

“Well, something must be done,” I 
moaned, “ for I just will not put up with it. 
The idea of a horrid old cat keeping a whole 
house awake night after night in this ridicu- 


168 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


lous way, — the idea ! Robin, that cat goes 
into the smoke-house to-morrow night, — 
locked in ; do you hear, Robin, — are you 
awake, dear ? ” But the soft, regular breath- 
ing of that small person is my only answer ; 
and the remainder of that night was left to 
Ebenezer’s ordering. 

The next two nights he was locked in, 
and into different dungeons. He has a fine 
sense of humor, — this cat. He waited com- 
posedly until lights were out and heads lev- 
eled ; then he either burrowed under the 
foundations, or crawled through the key- 
hole. 

Whenever Keziah has a special grievance, 
she spares her spleen till nightfall. When 
her tea-things are out of the way, the kitchen 
in print, dishtowels hung out to dry, Nip and 
Tuck fed, and not so much as a shred of her 
duties left loose to reproach her, she gives 
an extra twist to the knots of her turban, 
each knot standing for a grudge, and lets 
out the reefs in her sleeves and drapery that 
her full-blown temper may burst without 


EBENEZER. 


169 


let or hindrance. These preparations being 
effected to her mind, she sails away to the 
smoke-house door, her invariable growlery, 
where she spits her spite out in company 
with bats and owls and other evil genii. 

“Mis’ M’riar can’t fool me. She ain’t 
gwine tetch dat ole moldoozer, an’ dat ’s my 
dyin’ word. Mis’ M’riar ain’t got no gump- 
tion ’bout beastesses. Only lemme fotch 
him a cuff wunst, dad drat him ! ” 

Her muttered soliloquy is but a challenge 
to the echoes. 

“ Ef Mis’ M’riar ’spec’s me to honey up 
dat black warmint ’long wid de res’ o’ dis 
cattle-show, it ’s gwine in de wages, an’ dat ’s 
whar it ’s gwine. Whar ’s de wittles cornin’ 
from ? ” 

“ Faith an’ it ’s groomblin’ agin ye are, 
Keziah,” says Mary, who appears at this 
moment with a lame chicken in her kind 
hand ; she is carrying it to the house for 
surgical treatment. 

“ Grumblin’ ! Who ’s grumblin’, Mary 
Muldoon ? It ’s talkin’ sense I is. Whar ’s 


170 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

de wittles cornin’ from? — dat ’s what I 
wants to know.” 

Mary stooped to gather a handful of 
chickweed at her feet. The light of her 
lantern shone full upon it. The little crip- 
ple pecked away at it in silent protest 
against any dearth or stint at Ingle side. 

“Dar’s de billy-goat. Robin’s a driv’- 
lin’ id jit ’bout dat goat. 4 What you got 
kivered up in dis ’ere tin pail?’ sez he. 
4 Lay-overs for meddlers,’ sez I, — jes so. 

4 Fork it over, den,’ he sez, 4 dat ’ll do for 
Billy,’ sez he, an’ scoops it out an’ scoots.” 

44 Av coorse ; an’ why would n’t he, the 
darlint ? ” 

44 It ’s more ’n life ’s wuth to kill a briler, 
dese days. Nathan takes an’ kitches a cou- 
ple o’ pore, measly draggle-tails, — de skinny 
kind dat nuffin on de footstool ain’t gwine 
to fatten, — an’ I dry-picks ’em to make 
’em go furder. Den I fries ’em or briles 
’em, ’cordin’ to de ’rection o’ de wind in de 
cliimbley. Den I stirs me up nuff corn 
cookies for a camp-meetin’ shout, an’ kivers 


EBENEZER. 


171 


de bottom o’ de dish wid ’em, an’ on top o’ 
de cookies I lays de two mossels o’ mizry ; 
an’ de fambly ’spec’s de bones fum de pick- 
in’s to feed a famine, an’ de pigs besides.” 

The little cripple nestled close in Mary’s 
sheltering hands, shutting its eyes content- 
edly. 

The knots in the old woman’s bandanna 
were never less imposing than at this mo- 
ment. Beginning as important points in 
her argument, they were dwindling and be- 
ing consumed by virtue of her vehemence. 

“ It ’s c Oh, mammy, an’ oh, mammy, what 
yo’ gone done wid all dose bones lef’ fum de 
fried chicken ? Dem ’s for Bang you reco- 
member.’ All dose bones ! Huh ! 

“ An’ now heah comes along dis ornery, 
low-down, slommikey, no ’count ash-cat. Oh, 
lawk-a-massy ! ” 

With which harangue Keziah betook her- 
self by a short cut to the pantry, while 
Mary, with the invalid hugged to her bosom, 
wended her way to the house. In another 
moment, from the sacred precincts of that 


172 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


pantry issued sounds of violence most har- 
rowing. Lids of wooden boxes came tum- 
bling about the ears of earthern jars ; jugs 
and bottles were having a tremendous fall- 
ing out ; lard tubs were getting their heads 
well punched, and as to the pots, kettles and 
pans ! — 

I could hear the racket from my old 
Dutch chair on the veranda. I knew it was 
that black embodiment of mischief, but said 
nothing. 

When Keziah came for the order for 
breakfast a little later on, I still betrayed no 
knowledge of her state of mind. 

Next day but one, Robin and I began a 
search in the hall closet for my old gray 
cloak and his pea-jacket. Yes, there they 
were, behind the mackintoshes. As we 
tugged away, down came the tennis rackets 
with a resounding crash, followed, quick as 
lightning, by a black body and two wild 
eyes. A moment more, and the thing was 
careering over the lawn. 

My mind was made up. “ Mary ! ” I 


EBENEZER. 


173 


called out, “ come down to me. I want some 
scraps of meat and a crash bag and some 
string, — a bit of clothes - line will do, — 
and hurry up ! ” Then I conferred with 
It o bin, and Mary was taken into the con- 
spiracy. 

“ Faix an’ ye ’ll niver be afther dhrownin’ 
him the day ? ” protests the loving Irish 
heart. 

“ Sh ! mamma ; mum ’s the word. ‘ And 
this is the end of Solomon Grundy,’ ” sang 
the boy, as we went in search of the of- 
fender. 

We found him huddled under the kitchen 
porch, peering through the low lattice and 
mewing dismally. We coaxed him out with 
a morsel of meat ; allured him into the 
depths of a burlap bag, and with an uncom- 
promising string tied it in as many knots 
as we expected to sail that morning. Then 
with all reefs out, and the cat for ballast, 
our boat slipped her painter and we headed 
for the Point. 

The freshening breeze was with us. We 


174 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


shimmered as lightly over the creek and 
down the bay as a sea-swallow on the wing, 
— Ebenezer protesting every inch of the 
way with his hind legs, — and in less than 
an hour we had rounded the Point and were 
threading our way through the long seaweed 
that heavily fringes its shore. 

A stone’s throw from the water’s edge 
stands a baldheaded, barefaced tenement, 
without eyebrows or winkers or moral ex- 
pression of any kind. Therein a parcel of 
Kyle’s precious kinsfolk elect to abide ; it 
was just the place for Ebenezer. 

Hauling the bag ashore, the hempen cord 
was loosened. As we turned away, two lit- 
tle girls ran out of the house. One of them 
caught up the outcast in her arms with rap- 
turous welcome ; they were evidently old 
friends. 

Bets were exchanged in our kitchen there- 
after with regard to Ebenezer’s reappearance 
upon his old stamping ground. “ Bet you 
a shillin’ he takes a through ticket on the 
fust streak o’ lightnin’ that ’s booked for 


EBENEZER. 


175 


these ’ere parts,” prophesied Ryle. “I ’m 
willin’ to bet my money on that little beast, 
Eb’nezer, ev’ry time.” 

“I lay he don’t, then,” retorted Nathan. 
He had brought Fetch’s bit along, with a 
show of minding his own business, and was 
polishing it assiduously. “ How fur d’ ye 
make it to Goldbarr’s P’int ? I make it all 
o’ four mile ; an’ it ’s t’other side the crik, 
at that.” 

“ ’T ain’t no odds to me if it ’s four mile 
or forty. Me and Eb’nezer ain’t bin pals 
an’ shipmets nigh onto fifteen year, ’thout 
my gittin’ his bearin’s, so to say. Ef I 
was you, though, an’ had my ch’ice ’twixt 
Eb’nezer an’ the lightnin’, I ’d ruther the 
lightnin’ ev’ry time.” 

Keziah gave a sympathetic crow as she 
wrung her dishcloth dry. 44 Tain’t no use 
projeckin’ what dat cussed critter gwine do. 
I don’t bodder my head wid dat sort o’ trash, 
long as bilin’ water holds out to sizzle an’ 
flatirons is handy.” 

Ryle regarded her bandanna with uneom- 


176 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


mon interest ; that decoration is ever a 
conundrum to what he calls his mind. 

“ Guess I better be a - gittin’ along,” 
drawled the old fisherman. “ Be it weak 
fish, or be it strip-ed bass for to-morrow, 
ladies ? ” 

“ ’Clar’ to goodness if I ain’t done gone 
an’ forgot to ax Mis’ M’riar. You go, Mary ; 
I ’m all a slop o’ suds. Robin, honey,” — 
to the boy as he dashed through the kitchen, 

— “ do suthin for yo’ pore ole mammy. Go 
ax yer maw what she wants in de way o’ fish 
in de mawnin’.” 

“ Oh, anything ’s good enough — blue- 
fish, I reckon. I can’t ; I ’m in a norful 
hurry.” 

“ Yo’ ole mammy got suthin’ cookin’ for 
her sonny boy. It ’s in de stove dis minnit,” 

— sniffing, and rolling her tongue unctu- 
ously. “ I done fed yer pigs dis mawnin’.” 

“ Oh, bother ! ” groaned Robin. 

“ Dat ’s you, honey, an’ mind yo’ ax her 
air it biscakes or air it muffles for tea. 

“Lord love dat little feller’s soul an’ 


EBENEZER. 


177 


body,” — as the boy darted away to do her 
bidding ; “ he sholy are de cream tart o’ my 
’sistence, — de cream tart an’ de apple 
dumplin’.” 

It was at dead of night. A dense fog cov- 
ered the bay. In the fourth watch some- 
thing was hurled at our window screens. I 
lowered myself at risk of life from an out- 
post of my fortress, felt my way about the 
low trundle-bed and its gentle sleeper, and 
slipped over to the window. 

Yes, there it was — eyes, fangs, and tail ! 
The next morning, Ebenezer’s case was 
brought to the breakfast-table and laid be- 
fore a committee of two. According to 
Robin, Ebenezer had come up to the scratch. 
He had been valorous, heroic, unflinching. 
He had imperiled life and limb for the wel- 
fare of his hearth and home. In a word, he 
was a poor, piteous, lonesome, homesick 
black pussy, honestly to the manor born ; 
and we, without doubt were the grab-cats. 

A woman’s mind is not severely just, 


178 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


more ’s the pity. It is easier to theorize and 
philosophize and apostrophize at two o’clock 
of a dark and creepish night than to actively 
further the ends of justice ! « 

After breakfast, Robin presented him to 
Keziah, with many soft speeches. “ You 
darling old mammy, only look at the poor 
thing, — poor old kit ! He ’s most starved 
to death ; eyes all bunged up ; he ’s had a 
norful fight with something or other ” — 

“ Kinder tuckered out,” admitted the old 
woman, softening. 

“ Ain’t he, though ? and you ’re never go- 
ing to ballyrag him, mammy. Gimme some- 
thing or other for kitty right away ; I 
don’t believe he ’s had a bite since he left 
here.” 

“ Should n’t wonder.” 

“ Please, will you look at his ribs ? Why, 
mammy, you can count every bone in his 
body — Hark ! there ’s Ryle’s fish-horn, — 
we ’re all right ! ” Next minute the boy is 
clinging to the tail of the wagon, and all 
but praying for scraps. 


EBENEZER. 


179 


“ Oh ! it ’s Eb’nezer ; why, so ’t is,” said 
Ryle, with an engaging leer, weighing out 
the bluefish. “I ’ll eat my head off ef 
’t ain’t Eb’nezer, ’live an’ kickin’.” 

“ Yes, and he ’s going to stay, poor kitty- 
cat ! I want a snapper for him.” 

“ So ? ” Ryle bows low, hat in hand. 
“ Eb’nezer, my respec’s. Hope I find 
ye mod’rately mizzable. Many happy re- 
turns ! ” 


CHAPTER XI. 


OLD CKONIES. 

Ryle ’s home ! There is a convention 
at the Wigwam to-night. 

Messrs. Larkin and Steppnfetcher, of 
coaching fame, are present. Being off duty, 
they are in fatigue dress of copious trousers, 
velveteen shooting jackets, florid waistcoats, 
shirts plentifully besprinkled with horse- 
shoes, whips, and jockey caps, exuberant 
neckgear, nondescript hats, and jewelry in 
profusion, — a dress so becoming as to 
deeply agitate the housemaids who gathered 
about the area windows of the Great House 
to see them pass. 

Bellows, the blacksmith, is also present. 
He is very present indeed, in a new and sur- 
prising set of braces, the like of which was 
never seen upon his burly frame. They are 


OLD CRONIES. 


181 


not only a constitutional amendment to his 
habitual attire, but a concession to necessity. 

“ That ’s you, smithy,” drawls Larkin ; 
“ git up on your pegs an’ give us a squint at 
them gallusses ; give them gallusses a show.” 

“ Scrumptious, he ! he ! ” whinnies one of 
the under-grooms. 

“ Yer own daddy would n’t know yer, ef 
he was to fall over yer, Jim,” says Teddy. 

But Kyle views the constitutional amend- 
ment with favor. 

“ You done well, Bellows. That one gal- 
lus o’ yourn warn’t wuth a hang, noways. I 
tell ye, mates, when it comes to one gallus 
an’ one bone button, an’ leavin’ the res’ to 
Providence, ye know ! ” — 

The speaker resumes his pipe with a judi- 
cial air. Jim smiles, and looks particularly 
foolish. Mange puts in a word. 

“I see Judge Ingot to-day. He come 
a-ridin’ by on that gray cob o’ his’n ; sets 
him like a statcher.” 

“ Fine figger of a man,” Taggert admits, 
remembering his own. 


182 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


“ Ain’t a finer nor a likelier man nor 
Jedge Ingot ’twixt here an’ Montauk,” pro- 
claims Ryle. “Me an’ him was boys to- 
gether, — raised right here in Craddock.” 

“Proud to know you, sir,” says Teddy, 
with a flourish. 

“ Same to you, coachee ; don’t mention 
it, I beg. Yes, sir ; me an’ him went to ther 
same deestrick school when we was leetle 
chips ; played hooky an’ went fishin’ for 
shiners in a leaky old dugout . . . an’ got 
larrupped for it arterwards with the wery 
same rawhide ! 

“ Her name was Anastasy,” he continues 
after a meditative pause, — “ Anastasy Mad- 
dix. She was a tearer, she was, — reg’lar 
old cat. Us boys useter call her Miss Nasty.” 
Ryle grins a wide grin as he calls up these 
sentimental reflections. “ Lord ! but warn’t 
she skinny ! ” 

“ J edge Ingot was to my shop this fore- 
noon,” says the blackmith. “ One o’ them 
sorr’ls o’ his’n had picked up a rusty nail 
an’ druv it clar into the quick. Whiles’ I 


OLD CRONIES. 183 

was a-drorin’ of it out, the Jedge was a-chin- 
nin’ ’bout war times.” 

“ Cavalry orf’cer, warn’t he ? ” somebody 
asks. 

“An’ a comrade of yourn, Ryle,” says 
Mr. Trigger. 

“ Not much he warn’t. He was drafted, 
he was. I was a wolunteer,” — proudly. 

“ He ’s a master hand to palaver, J edge 
Ingot is,” continues the blacksmith ; “ I 
never see his beat when he gits a-goin’. 
Says his legs was ’crost the saddle on a 
stretch for two days, — thar ’s fightin’ for 
ye ! Says him an’ his hoss useter sleep jes’ 
so, long tramps ; wake up for a ditch or a 
gulley, an’ drap off ag’in till mormn’. Says 
it ’s easy as t’ other way, when ye git into 
the hang of it.” 

“ So ’t is,” Ryle remarks gravely ; * I 
been thar.” 

“ Howsomdever did a man o’ your gifts 
and gumption git into the army, Mr. Ryer~ 
son ? ” queries the dog doctor, deferentially. 

Ryle brings the weight of his brows to 


184 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


bear upon the question ; that period of his 
history is not to be approached lightly. 

“ Me ? Dogged ef I know, — guess ’t was 
Peter. Res’less, rovin’, easy-goin’ sort o’ 
chap, Peter Ryerson. Crazy over booma- 
laddies from time he was knee high to naw- 
thin’. Everlastin’ more a-gettin’ up sojer 
comp’nies an’ drillin’ ’em. Whittlin’ out 
swords an’ muskits an’ sich.” 

“ That ’a him all over, — that ’s Pete,” 
Mange observes. 

“ Who ’s a-tellin’ this yarn ? ” snaps the 
old fisherman. Mange subsides and is mute. 

“ When the war broke out, nawthin’ else 
would n’t pacify him ; go he must. Dad 
was agin it from the fust. Said a man’s 
dooty, fust off, was to his forbears. Said 
the country could go to grass, for all him. 
Said he ’d give us a yawl, out an’ out, an’ go 
pardners in the fishin’ bizness. Said we was 
a couple o’ durn fools, an’ idjits, an’ suthin’ 
else flatterin’. 

“ One arternoon in April o’ that year, dad 
’lowed he ’d go to camp-meetin’ : old man 


OLD CRONIES. 


185 


was deacon in the church, ye see, an’ turr’- 
ble pious. Pete gimme a wink. ‘ Camp ’s 
t’ other side o’ Sea View, ain’t it ? ’ says 
Pete. 4 Thirteen mile thar an’ thirteen 
back ! Git him up some grub, will yer, 
Pyle ; no good prayin’ an’ exhortin’ on a 
empty stummik. Don’t you forgit the bot- 
tle o’ draps,’ cuttin’ his eye at me ; ‘ I won’t 
be a minute hitchin’ up.’ Pete could be 
almighty agreeable an’ ’commodatin’ when 
he was a mind. 

“Dad was cornsid’able set up, but he 
never let on. Said it looked to wind’ard 
like a spell o’ weather ; said we better see to 
them trawls afore tide was out. Wal, sir, we 
h’isted him into the waggin (he was mortial 
fleshy), an’ ’sorted him. Ole man hadn’t 
more ’n struck the turnpike afore we had 
picked up our duds, packed our kit, and 
was leggin’ it, two-forty, for Middleport 
station.” 

A twist of Pyle’s jaw discloses every evil 
fang within it ; they stand for exclamation 
points to this part of his narrative. 


186 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ We ’listed for three year. I warn’t 
never what ye monght call a common sojer 
or private, I warn’t ; I was in the quarter- 
master department,” — this consequentially. 
Ryle smokes through his nose with the ease 
and dexterity of long practice. After a 
pause, during which he neither sneezes nor 
strangles, he says slowly, — 

“ Into the quartermaster department was 
whar they landed me, an’ thar I stuck. 
Fust to last I bootchered twenty thousand 
head o’ cattle, sir, — twenty thousand ; an’ 
I never bloodied a knife ! ” 

There is an ominous hush in the assembly. 
Ryle breathes his soul into the corncob ; 
surprising how small a space will hold the 
pith of some personalities ! The smoke rises 
in rings and vaporous mysteries; Ryle’s 
visage is impenetrable. 

“ Fust call for troops me an’ Pete ’listed 
for three year. When our time was out 
bounties was runnin’ pratty high. Daddy 
give it out as his ’pinions that cornsiderin’ we 
had .fetched home whole skins to our car- 


OLD CRONIES. 


187 


kisses, an’ cornsiderin’ we warn’t nairy one 
of us born nat’rels, we was a blame sight 
smarter to let the sojerin’ go to the devil an’ 
stick to the trawls. 

“ Pete, he was easy persuaded. Thar 
was a gal he was sweet on livin’ t’ other 
side the P’int. She ’d made out to wait 
for Pete all them year, — name was Polly 
Pearsall.” 

“Thort Mis’ Ryerson’s given name was 
Mehitabel,” Nathan remarks in a puzzled 
tone. Nathan has sailed with Robin to the 
Point for clams, and feels intimate with 
that branch of the family. 

“ Mis’ Pete Ryerson ? Lord bless ye, 
man, he ’s planted two on ’em sence Polly 
Pearsall. Mehitabel ’s number four, she is.” 
Ryle proclaims these facts through his pipe, 
which happy medium chuckles inwardly, 
sputters, and explodes in giggles. 

u Pete, he ’lowed he ’d got ’nough sojerin’ 
for one spell. He got spliced to Polly ? 
bought the P’int on tick, an’ tuk to clam- 


188 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ Peter-ed out, so to say,” drolls one wit. 
“ Stuck in the mud,” chirps another, who 
might be Mr. Steppnfetcher. 

“ As a profession, clam diggin’ ain’t much 
excitement into it,” Ryle remarks evenly. 
“ No more ain’t hangin’ on to the tail-eend 
of a tally-ho coach, an’ tootin’ a horn, I 
jedge.” 

Teddy leans lazily against the fence, arms 
akimbo ; Larkin is equally unconcerned. If 
any shots have been fired, nobody is hurt. 

“ W ould n’t airy one o’ them perfessions 
ha’ filled your bill, Mr. Ryerson ? ” says the 
dog doctor, with a note of admiration. 

“ Lord, no ! My spunk was up.” 

“ An’ so was the bounties,” Teddy ven- 
tures slyly. 

“ An’ so was the bounties, my buck, an’ 
don’t yer forgit it. 

“ One night a boat-load o’ reg’lars come 
ashore right below here. They ’d been on a 
bat down the bay, was ketched in a fog, an’ 
got aground. I ’d been out for bunkers, I 
recomember, and my skiff was loaded down 


OLD CRONIES. 


189 


to her scuppers. I hauled up alongside. 4 Ef 
it ’s a skipper yer layin’ for,’ sez I, 4 here ’s 
yer sorts.’ We skipped, we did.” 

44 Skipped the bounty, you say ” — 

44 We skipped, we did,” Ryle continues 
calmly. 44 Thar was a recruitin’ orf’cer 
aboard the sloop. I ’listed to the chune o’ 
Yankee Doodle an’ twelve hundred dollars, 
I did,” — 

44 Rats ! ” 44 Oh, come off ! ” 44 Twelve 

hundred ! ” 44 Yer talkin’ in yer hat.” 

44 Ruther a tidy pile o’ tin, warn’t it, mate ? 
I salted it right down in the Middleport 
Savin’s Bank, — come in handy when that 
little piece o’ property was throwed into the 
market.” Ryle speaks with the careless 
ease common to all great financiers. 

44 Ryle’s Ketch,” says one of the company 
in an undertone to his neighbors. “All’s 
fish that comes to Ryle’s net,” sighs another. 
Nathan clears his throat. 

44 Ahem ! Ahem ! That fool Fitz-Jinkins 
was hanging about our place the most o’ 
yestiddy. He ’s took a all-fired shine to our 


190 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

Robin. Robin’s mar ain’t took no shine to 
him, she ain’t ; it ’s my b’lief she ’ll h’ist 
him yit.” 

“ Pertic’lar friend o’ Mr. Steppnfetcher’s,” 
Larkin observes casually as he lights another 
cigar. 

Teddy’s dimpled chin goes up an inch, 
while he tacks on another cubit to his 
stature. 

“Raythur so, slightually, a few.” He 
thrusts his tongue into his cheek, whence 
comes a sound like drawing the cork of a 
bottle of wrath. 

“ Draw it mild, Teddy,” wheezes a voice 
behind him ; “ draw it mild.” 

“ ’T was the Tuesday afore the Middleport 
races ; me an’ Skyrocket was on the road 
tryin’ our wind an’ limberin’ up our j’ints 
’gainst we wanted ’em. ’Long comes Fitzie 
with that yaller-bodied game cart o’ his ’n 
an’ the buckskin cobs. Here they come, all 
over road, like a locomotive with the jim- 
jams.” 

“ That ’s Fitz-Jinkins,” says a pudding- 


OLD CRONIES. 


191 


faced man just arrived, — a man with a nose 
like a sauceboat, a floating eye, and other 
lines of beauty. 

• “ I pulled her up so suddent she nigh 
’bout sot down, Skyrocket did. ’Shake ’em 
up, old gal,’ sez I, — 'Shake ’em ! What ’s 
the matter with ye ? ’ I fetched her a tree- 
menjous dig in the ribs, an’ I ’ll be ding- 
swizzled ef that little filly did n’t go for 
them corncobs — buckskins I would say — 
same as she was powder an’ I was matches. 
Thunder an’ lightnin’ ’s a burnt match to 
Skyrocket, — she ’s that tetchy. Sich an- 
other snortin’, an’ cavortin’ — whee-ugh ! ” 
Mr. Steppnfetcher’s whistle is one of his 
greater faculties. It is a figure of speech 
or a safety valve. 

“ Whee-ugh ! Whole kit an’ caboodle of 
’em chucked kerchunk into the wery ditch 
picked out for a diffunt party ? Smoke ? ” 
As Mr. Steppnfetcher warms to his theme 
he affects one of the attitudes for which he 
is famous ; Ryle views the result from the 
corner of one eye. 


192 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ Smashed to smithereens, by jingo. 
Game cart toted home in two wheelbarrer 
loads nex’ day, — come in handy for kitchin 
kindlin’s. As for the buckskins, they 
fetched up, I am giv’ to understand by a 
eye-witness, jest a leetle this side o’ Bally- 
hack.” 

The chuckles burst into shouts of laugh- 
ter ; even Larkin forgets to remember him- 
self and is uproarious. 

“ What become o’ Fitz-Jinkins ? ” pipes a 
shrill voice. 

“ Oh, Fitzie ’s pheluginous. Got ’nough 
stuffin’ knocked out in the scrimmage to git 
him into ruther decent shape for the nex’ 
turnout his mar ’ll buy for him.” 

Ryle darts a gleam from under his shaggy 
brows. “ He ’ll turn out, my boy, after 
this ; turn out ev’ry time — ye kin take my 
affidavy.” 

“ He turned out this forenoon in wimmin’s 
clo’es,” says a person in silhouette on the 
fence, — a person so rawboned and loose- 
limbed as to be singularly adapted to his 


OLD CRONIES. 


193 


position on that top rail, — no half -full feed 
bag could be balanced better; a figure 
already introduced as “ Pickaback ; ” a 
loafer of the first magnitude, a presiding 
elder in the Methodist Church, and a bone- 
and-rag collector by persuasion. 

“ He makes me tired,” drones this wor- 
thy. “I seen him gallivantin’ the gals at 
the post-office to-day, dressed up in the aw- 
f ullest lot o’ molly-coddle togs you ever see. 
A pink silk sash with tossles danglin’ to 
one side ; cribbed it from his sister, o’ course, 
— the chump ! ” 

“ He ’s took a great shine to our Robin,” 
Nathan begins again. “He paddles ’cross 
the crik in that canvas canoe o’ his’n, — it 
don’t weigh more ’n a sneeze, — he lays to 
an’ whistles, an’ Robin ’s off arter him like 
a streak o’ greased lightnin’, ’t ain’t no odds 
what else is in the wind. He totes him over 
to his shebang, an’ then that sweet-scented 
s’rub begins to blow. Blows ’bout old 
Goldbarr’s swag, — how many gold dishes, 
gold plates, gold teapots he ’s got ” — 


194 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


“ 01i t luff up, there ! ” “ Put on the 

brakes ! ” u What ye givin’ us? ” “ That ’s 
a likely yarn ! ” comes like a roll of mus- 
ketry from the outposts. 

“ That ’s true as preachin’ ” (Ryle’s sim- 
iles are always good) ; “ I seen ’em myself 
through the pantry winder t’ other day ; 
head butler was cleanin’ of ’em for a big 
fandango to come off next evenin’. I hove 
to an’ give him good-day. I had a mess o’ 
sof ’ crabs in a passel o’ seaweed, — they 
was a pictur’ to look at. I onkivered ’em, 
jes’ to see his mouth water. He hefted the 
biggest of ’em, — none of ’em warn’t much 
bigger nor spiders, they was that delicate, — 
then layin’ it back easy, and lickin’ his fin- 
gers, he sez to me, sez he, ‘ Cornsiderin’ 
the market ’s overstocked, what mought sich 
little fiddlers as them there bring apiece 
to-day ? ’ 

“ ‘ Them little fiddlers ain’t for sale, sir,’ 
sez I ; 4 1 brung ’em along as a present for a 
friend o’ mine. I picked ’em out of a bar’l 
full that ’s booked for Dorlon’s in the Ful- 


OLD CRONIES. 


195 


ton Market. If you ’ll excuge the liberty,’ 
I says, 4 1 brung ’em to you, sir,’ sez I ; 
4 1 thort you and your lady might like ’em 
for a change to your suppers,’ sez I. 

“Warn’t nawthin’ more said ’bout 4 fid- 
dlers,’ ” — grimly ; 44 they was sof ’ crabs, they 
was ; an’ they weighed a pound apiece ! 

44 Next I knowed I was t’ other side the 
pantry winder, and me and the head butler 
thicker ’n thieves. Every smitch o’ their 
table silver is gold, — solid gold, no mon- 
keyin’ : gravies, wege’bles, forks, an’ spoons, 

— which is a switch-off, as the tender says 
to the locomotive ; excuge delays. Go 
ahead, Nathan.” 

44 1 was about to remark, sir,” says Mr. 
Nathan Taggart, stiffly, 44 with ref’rence to 
that sweet-scented s’ rub by the name o’ 
Fitz-Jinkins,” — the expression is so telling 
that he rolls it out as often as good piecrust, 

— 44 1 was goin’ to say when somebody 
chipped in, that when Fitz-Jinkins begins 
to blow, Eobin never lets on but what he ’s 
sadisfied. The little cuss has got a fiddle 


196 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


he cut out’n a cornstalk. Minute that pre- 
cious Navigator shakes out his reefs, an’ 
sails into Goldbarr’s kitchen with a cargo o’ 
solid silver, Robin fetches out his fiddle an’ 
takes to scrapin’ chunes. Scrapes ’em kinder 
promisc’ous, like. Chaws his tongue into 
one cheek, — it ’s good as a show, — chaws 
it into one cheek, so ! when the durn thing 
gits a hitch into it an’ won’t go. Robin ’s 
dretful tickled when he scrapes out ‘ Hark 
from the tombs,’ or ‘ Razzle Dazzle,’ or 
suthin’ else lively.” 

Nathan Taggart wipes his face upon his 
sleeve, flings imaginary drops into the stilly 
night, settles his head on both arms, and 
abandons himself to the downy ease of the 
woodpile. As he measures his length there, 
Ryle sits erect. 

“ Speakin’ o’ wittles reminds me o’ drinks,” 
says this moral philosopher. “ The- time a 
pore man feels ez good ez a rich man is the 
time he ’s drunk. That ’s the reason this 
coon lets hisself go, once in a moon’s age. 
Odd, dull times in winter, when fish don’t 


OLD CRONIES. 


197 


bite, nor customers nuther, I toddles up to 
Craddock ” (the Mecca of these fisherfolk), 
“ an’ I kin git ez jolly drunk on a quarter 
ez old Goldbarr hisself on a pocketful, 
— trust yer gran’dad for that, my hear- 
ties ! ” wagging his head and cracking with 
laughter. 

“ Speakin’ o’ wittles, them Goldbarrs’ fish 
bill ain’t nawthin’ to be sneezed at, I jedge,” 
observes the dog doctor. 

Ryle is silent for the length of a smoker’s 
yawn. Pressing the burning tobacco into 
place with his thumb, — live coals are not 
the only sentient things that have to come 
under that thumb ! — pressing it deftly, he 
smites his pocket. 

“ ’T ain’t nawthin’ to brag on, Mange, but 
it helps to keep the pot a-bilin’. I gits my 
check for a hundred dollars for what I 
fetches ’em, an’ I gits it ev’ry week. Blue- 
fish an’ strip-ed bass for the help, Spanish 
mack’rel an’ sheepshead for the fambly. A 
hundred a week, sir ! ” this defiantly, and 
as the yarn waxes, no dog dares bark. 


198 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

44 Fambly don’t resk no fish, be it shells 
or be it fins, but Ryle Ryerson’s. Mis’ 
Goldbarr comes out to the kitchin door, 
friendly as yer please, — she ain’t none o’ 
yer proud stummiks, — an’ sez she, 4 Mr. 
Ryerson, I ain’t never no appetite to men- 
tion,’ sez she, 4 but I kin allers pick a bit o’ 
fish to my supper o’ your choosin’ ! ’ ” 

Ryle knocks the ashes from his corncob 
for the last time to-night, wrings the neck 
of the pouch, ties it in a hard noose with a 
bit of fishline, and returns both to their 
ledge within the woodpile. A mortal wrench 
of every bone in his bony, an abysmal 
yawn, and the council is ended. 

Larkin opens his mouth to protest, but is 
checked by a gesture. 

44 Tide ’s high at four-fifteen, young man ; 
guess I ’ll turn in, if it ’s to be forty winks 
afore daylight, but I wanter mention a fact 
right here, an’ don’t none o’ you never for- 
git it : — 

44 If Archibald Goldbarr’s money was all 
changed into one -dollar bills, if they was 


OLD CRONIES. 


199 


ironed out slick and tidy, an’ you was to 
paste ’em eend on eend fur ’s they ’d go, I 
tell you, boys, they ’d make a belly-band 
that ’d reach smack round the world. Yes, 
sir-ee ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 


BUSTER. 

A whistle can be beard coming over the 
bridge tbat spans our little creek. I know 
that whistle ; it belongs to a branch — a 
twig, rather — of the Bloomsbury tree, pop- 
ularly known as “ Buster.” 

The whistle is a complicated affair, and 
at this moment seems to be involved with a 
wicker-basket of plethoric habit. Buster is 
endeavoring to take both over a five-barred 
fence at the same time, has been arrested 
by a jag or tag in the top rail, and is having 
a time of it. 

I know that basket well. A vision pre- 
sents itself to me of early vegetables, new- 
laid eggs, saltless butter, and a cream-cheese 
or two, — all carefully put up for the Mis- 
tress of Ingleside, with the “ respectful com- 


BUSTER. 201 

pliments ” of Mr. Goldbarr’s head gardener, 
— the Goldbarrs being at Saratoga. 

“ Pity they did n’t arrive in time for din- 
ner,” think I. “Nice boy, that Buster 
Bloomsbury, — a nice, mannerly boy. Rob- 
in’s old pea-jacket will about fit him ; then 
that ulster ” — t 

But no ; neither the bucolic delicacies, 
nor the “ respectful compliments ” (another 
delicacy), nor the accompanying whistle, 
are bound for Ingleside ; they all turn off 
toward the Seaside Home. 

“ Good man, that Bloomsbury,” I reflect, 
my mental vane veering suddenly ; “ he ’s 
got a heart in his body. Why did n’t I 
think to carry some ice-cream to Maggy’s 
sister? lots of it left over. What a stu- 
pid I am ! I ’ll do it this very minute.” 

“And, Mary, break me off a good big 
piece of the fresh sponge-cake, — little Andy 
is particularly fond of sponge-cake ; for your 
life don’t cut it.” 

“ Beloike a moosharoon sangwich ’ll timpt 
him — cut thin, d’ ye moind. I ’ll do a coo- 
ple av ’em in a whipstitch ! ” 


202 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


6i Where you going, mamma ? ” Robin 
would like to know. “ What ’s all this that 
smells in the basket ? ” sniffs Bang’s inquisi- 
tive nose. 

“ Keep your nose out of that basket, sir, 
and take it properly by the handle. Come ! 
Fetch it along, Bang, — fetch it ! . . . It ’s 
going to little Maggy, Robin ; you come 
too. May be we can coax her out for a lit- 
tle drive this afternoon ; she does not seem 
to pick up strength like the others.” 

Robin gets his hat and I my sunshade. 
Bang stalks solemnly beside us, the basket 
in his mouth, and with a pervading sense of 
his own importance, — a sense which is 
quickened by the approach of Larkin’s bull- 
dog, with epithets on his tongue and blood 
in his eye. Bang takes no further notice of 
these signals than the bristles along his 
spinal column may be supposed to express, 
unless we except a latent gleam in his own 
eye to the effect that he will see the Larkin 
dog later on. 

As we turn to come through the outer 


BUSTER. 


203 


gate of the Home, there drives up to it a 
bumptious baker of tender years and tough 
conceit ; he has brought the daily dole of 
buns. Perceiving a group of the poor girls, 
in their shabby clothes, gathering golden- 
rod and September daisies by the way, he 
bethinks him to be funny. 

“ Old do’ ! cash for clo’ ! Bottles, bones, 
soap-fat. Ting-a-ling ! Rags to sell ? Any 
r-r-rags ? ” 

The girls look up in a dazed way, all their 
innocent happiness shuddering out of their 
faces ; the wild flowers lie in a poor little 
heap at their feet. 

“ Take that, young man ! — and that, and 
that , — here, boys, lend a hand ! ” and a 
shower of stale moss-bunkers comes about 
the ears of the jeering youth. Robin and 
Buster take aim at close range, while Ryle 
from the front seat of his fish wagon cheers 
them on, his wicked old face one wide, sar- 
donic grin. 

“ Got a few more left o’ the same sort, 
young punkin-head ; where ’ll ye have ’em ? 


204 


jRYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


Hip — hip, — look out there ! ” It is a 
jelly-fish this time, a big one, and it takes 
the boy obliquely. 

The scoffer collapses like a penny blad- 
der. It is a meek and mild baker’s boy 
who now conveys those dreadful buns up the 
path, and through the shouts of that ecstatic 
crowd ; the lashing of his bony beast, as he 
rattles round the corner, but faintly indicat- 
ing the tenor of his mind. In times of war, 
like this, Buster can be a strong ally ; he is 
terrible in action ! 

When the battle is over, when both bas- 
kets of goodies have been despoiled, when 
Ryle has delivered his supplies at the back 
door of the Home, we go our several ways 
in peace. The boys catch on behind Ryle’s 
wagon and steal a ride back to Ingleside. 

“ Oceans of time to go crabbing, Buster,” 
says Robin. “You don’t have to go after 
those old cows till five o’clock ; it ’s only a 
little after three now ; I heard it strike at 
the Home.” 


“ I wish ’t I could ” 


BUSTER. 


205 


“ There ’s dandy crabbing ’cross the creek,” 
Robin continues adroitly ; “Jim Fitz- Jen- 
kins and I got a norful lot of ’em this morn- 
ing. We gave ’em to Ryle.” 

“ That so ? Pop ast me to weed the puss- 
ley bed ; but I s’pose I could weed it ’long 
towards evenin’.” 

“ Course you can : come on, Buster ; Ke- 
ziah ’s got plenty of soup meat ; we ’ll beg 
her for some for bait.” 

“Ain’t a mossel, honey,” says the old 
woman kindly ; “ yo’ ole mammy ’s mons’ous 
sorry to dis’p’int her sonny boy ; but Bang ’s 
’spons’ble for dat mess o’ soup meat, dog- 
gone him.” 

“ What happened to it ? ” cries Robin in 
dismay; “why, it was right here on the 
kitchen porch, before dinner. What you 
let him have it for, mammy ? ” 

“ Did n’t let ; he tuk it.” 

The dog lifts his head, and with both ears 
well forward gives keen attention. 

“ ’T was jes’ befo’ dinner time ; I was 
busy dishin’ up dinner. Bang was strotched 


206 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


out on de po’ch a-sunnin’ hisself arter his 
breakwhish, an’ dat chock wid mush an’ milk 
he was fit ter split. Heah comes dat teensy, 
tinesy, mischeevious banty rooster a-struttin’ 
’long big as Cuffee. In a li’l minute he 
spies de soup meat ” — 

“ Oh, bother ! ” 

— “ an’ makes a grab. ‘ No yer don’t, 
honey,’ sez Bang, an’ fotches him a cuff. 
Den dar wus a tussle, yo’ better b’lieve. 
He pitch into Bang an’ claw him good ; an’ 
he ain’t bigger ’n a sneeze, dat little roos- 
ter ! ” 

“ And what did Bang do ? Did you let 
that banty lick you, you rascal ? ” demanded 
the young master, taking the setter’s head 
between his hands, and searching his dark- 
ling eyes for his conscience. The dog did 
not flinch, but he disdained to answer ; char- 
acter must go for something. 

“ I was brownin’ my gravy for de fried 
chicken, an’ I darsn’t budge a inch fiun 
dat spider. Bimeby I see Bang scootin’ for 
de laylock bush, tail a-boom, wid suthin’ sus- 


BUSTER. 


207 


picuous in his mouf. Nex’ news lie scratch 
a hole an’ kiver it up keerful wid his paws. 
Den I knowed for sartain sho’ nobody needn’t 
pester ’bout Bang’s supper, ’case he done 
bin an’ gone to market, — whah ! whah ! 
whah ! ” 

Bang looks from one to the other, puts 
out a paw to his master, blinks both eyes, 
and looks so penitent that Robin is con- 
strained to forgive him on the spot. 

“ Oh, well ! ” sighs the young philosopher, 
“ it ’s too roasting hot to go crabbing any- 
way ; let ’s take Bang to the creek and give 
him a swim.” 

“ An’ rub him down after it,” says Buster. 

Our well-bred setter delights in a down- 
right plunge in the river, and another one to 
make sure ; then in the thorough toweling 
the lush clover gives him. But not until 
Robin has taken the soft silken locks in his 
loving hands, and brushed and polished 
them on both sides, — not until then is he 
the perfect beauty that we know. 

“ There ’s unc’ Laz’rus,” exclaim the boys 
in a breath. “ How-do, uncle ? ” 


208 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ I ’m a-creepin’, I ’m ’bleeged to ye ; 
how ’s marse Robin ? ” touching his hat. 

“ Fine ! What ’s become of that story 
you promised to tell us ? ” 

“ I ’clar forgits whut story dat story wus ; 
wus it de one ’bout ole Nick an’ de hopper- 
grasses ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! — guess so ; tell us that one, 
anyhow.” 

“Jes’ so. I ’spicioned it mought be 
tur’r one ’bout de ghos’ in de buryin’ ground, 
back o’ de meetin’-’ouse. I seen dat ghos’ 
time an’ agin my own se’f. Dat ghos’ got a 
gredge ’gin ole Laz’rus Driggus,” — in an 
awesome voice. 

“ Ghost ! ” scornfully ; “ who ’s afraid o’ 
ghosts ! Give us that one first, though.” 

All three are by this time down on the 
shady side of a sandbank, the setter having 
taken to the water. The old man bares his 
head to what little breeze may come ashore ; 
the boys, with their hair on end in anticipa- 
tion, are trying to keep cool and look com- 
posed. 


BUSTER. 


209 


If poets are born, so are story-tellers, and 
chiefest among these are the negroes. Every- 
thing about them contributes to this. Their 
faith in signs and wonders ; their delight in 
the marvelous ; their superstitions, their 
fervid imagination, and the vein of poetry 
that tinges all they say. 

The story over, the party of three come 
strolling back at an idle pace to the kitchen 
porch ; Keziah is still at work. After a 
sidelong look at the two flushed faces, Ke- 
ziah 44 would n’t wonder if there was n’t some 
scrapin’ s lef’ in de ice-cream freezer.” This 
to herself, as she goes in search of two 
kitchen saucers. In another minute she has 
slipped out of the back door with something 
tucked artfully under her big apron. Robin 
darts after her, followed closely by Buster. 

“ Here ! Who you doggin’ I Clar’ out my 
tracks, — you hear me ? ” 

“ Boys ! boys ! come away,” says a voice 
from the veranda, “ Keziah ’s busy.” 

But so are the boys. They all reach the 
smoke-house together. 


210 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ Now, Robin, you hears my las’ dyin’ 
word. Ef you lays a finger on dat freezer, 
I ’m gwine to gib de las’ scrapin’s to Buster.” 

Which threat acts vicariously. 

The boys watch her motions narrowly, till 
the saucers are as full as they can hold. 

“Now, honey, don’t go drap a drap on 
dem britches, or Miss M’riar gwine dead me, 
sho ! Heah ! climb up on de fence, bof e of 
ye, an’ I ’ll spread out my apurn to kitch de 
draps.” 

The boys scramble into place, while the old 
woman seats herself upon a stump near by. 

u Have some, mammy. Num-num ! but 
ain’t it good ! ” 

“ Have some o’ mine, ma’am,” says Buster, 
offering a big spoonful. 

“ No, honey ; eat it all up y’sef ; de leas’ 
mossel o’ dat stuff boun’ to sot my in’ards 
in a rack o’ miz’ry. Tell yo’ what do, 
Robin, for yo’ pore ole mammy! Sing a 
li’l chune for me; 4 Jim, crack corn,’ gwine 
chirk me up powerful.” 

The boys balance themselves on the fence 


BUSTER. 


211 


rail and see-saw happily between the mouth- 
fuls. At this juncture one of the forty 
thieves of the village, who has been hidden 
in the grass watching, creeps up stealthily 
behind and bursts suddenly upon them. 

“ Hi ! hi ! you old Buster Bloomsb’ry. 
I see you settin’ up yer back wid yer bet- 
ters. Geeminy crackey ! but ain’t we fine in 
our Sunday lugs o’ week days ! Oh, no ! 
not at all ; ” and other such gibes and jeers, 
which the young Brummel may well afford 
to suffer, with that slow stream of luscious 
fluid trickling coldly down his thirsty throat. 
He swallows blissfully and shuts his eyes. 
His persecutor views the scene with gnawing 
greed and envy. 

“ Hi ! hi ! but ain’t we splinkum ! Scoot 
home an’ peel off them fancy britches, old 
dandy Buster ! Scoot afore yer daddy kitches 
yer an’ gives yer a ham-bastin’. I kin lick 
you , smarty ! ” making a grab for the saucer. 

Keziah is too quick for him. She brings 
him a resounding whack with her open 
palm, which sends the small detachment fly- 


212 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


in g through the air like a trap-ball. The 
boys break all up into spasms of glee. 
Robin is so delighted he fairly hugs the old 
woman and pats her black face. 

“ Good for you, mammy ! Good lick ! ” 
Keziah returns the caress heartily, but is 
really absorbed in the antics of the small 
detachment, who has picked himself up, and 
is hopping away on one foot, howling. She 
folds the arm of justice under her idle elbow, 
and hugs herself comfortably. 

“ Honey, some crawlin’ critters can be 
stomped on easy an’ mashed, when dey gits 
in de way o’ de righteous. But dis kind dat 
Satan keeps a-buzzin’ to pester de saints to 
sin, — de warmints wid pizen in de sting ” — 
“ I smell something burnin’,” Buster re- 
marks, as he prepares to lick his saucer ; 
“ smells like — smells like ” — sniffing cu- 
riously. Keziah starts up, runs for the 
kitchen, and flings wide open the oven door. 

“ Burnt to a cinder ! ” she wails ; “ burnt 
up to a cinder ! Dem cinnamon jumbles 
gwine to lose me my ’ligion yit ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR’S. 

“Won’t you look after my friend Tri- 
coupis while I am away on my vacation? 
He is to take my place, you know.” It is 
Mr. Armstrong who speaks, standing in our 
doorway, his back to the light. 

“ With the greatest possible pleasure,” I 
begin. 

“ In the pulpit, I mean. He has the gift 
of all tongues but ours. I have told him to 
come to you with his sermons, and you will 
straighten them out for him.” 

I looked at the young person our rector 
was giving me so freely. 

Of medium height, with the student stoop 
in his shoulders. A boyish face certainly, 
with an uncertain chin, a nervous mouth, 
prominent eyes, and still more prominent 
spectacles, the long wire ends wound around 


214 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


his ears. Scant wisps of hair strayed about 
his head with the effect of having lost their 
way. No amount of brushing could keep 
any of them at the true scholarly slant. 

“ Sermons — to me ? You ’re not in ear- 
nest, Mr. Armstrong.” 

“ Of course I am in earnest ; why not ? ” 

I laughed and shook my head. 

“ To me ? Please don’t he funny this 
time.” 

“ Upon my word, I was never so serious 
before. You ’ll never harden your heart 
against him, — you ’ll help him out ; I know 
you will.” 

“ I ’m afraid you ’re wandering in your 
mind, Mr. Armstrong. Why, I could n’t 
write out a notice for a Sunday-school pic- 
nic without help from the superintendent; 
and a sermon ! ” 

I was seated in the least conciliatory chair 
in the room, — a high-backed, stiffnecked, 
inflexible affair. The young Oriental lis- 
tened attentively, then bounded rather than 
walked across the room. 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 215 

“ Superintend ! C’est 9a — superintend ! ” 
lie cried out ; “ you will superintend — you 
will teach me the treecks of your idiom, 
madame ; is it not so ? ” 

He seized my hand, saluted the hack of it 
(no foreign fashion has as yet been invented 
which causes the modest American more an- 
guish !), and then recovered himself with 
aplomb ; indeed, a plumb line seemed to fall 
to his heels as they came together with a 
click, he was so preternaturally perpendicu- 
lar. I smiled at the sanguine face that was 
scanning mine, — a good face truly, and one 
to befriend ; albeit a trifle too explosive for 
a quiet life like mine. 

I smiled sweetly at him, but breathed 
to myself in ghostly confidence, “ What ! 
direct this fervid youth’s effusions? I think 
not.” 

“I knew you would consent,” returned 
Mr. Armstrong, easily ; “how good you are ! 
You see it ’s the idiom,” — dropping into a 
confidential tone. “When the idiom ties 
the text into hard knots, you can pick them 


216 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


all out for him so readily.” The speaker 
was beginning to feel comfortable in his 
mind ; this shifting the responsibility of an- 
other’s errors is apt to solace the soul. 

“ The idiom ! Ma foi, but your idiom,” 
lamented the younger man, “ it floors one.” 

I laughed. “ Does it ? Then who taught 
you that one ? ” 

He hunched up one shoulder in his for- 
eign way, waved his head from side to side, 
and gazed out of the window. A bit of 
drama was going on outside. 

Keziah was crossing the lawn, a basket of 
wet clothes poised upon her turbaned head, 
her big apron gathered up in both hands to 
hold the clothespins. Moving over the grass 
with the ease of long habit, — she would 
scorn to lift an arm to brace that mighty 
load, — she swung her burden to the ground, 
and, lifting up her voice, sang, — 

“Sisters, holp me in dis fight; 

Satin ’s try in’ wid all his might 
To drag me down de golden stair, 

An 1 git my soul to rip and tear. 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 217 


“Sisters, cotch me by de han’, 

Help me pas’ de dang-’rous rocks ; 
Satin ’s sot his eyes on me 
To trip me up wid stumblin’ blocks.” 


There is a touch of pathos in the un- 
trained voice of a negro, however grotesque 
the words, that renders it in a way akin to 
all the other voices of nature. 

My resolve wavered in rhythm with her 
motions, and yet what a slight thing will 
turn the whole drift of one’s purpose ! 

“Just listen to that dear old Keziah of 
mine,” I said, half aloud ; “ I believe she 
has brought me a message.” 

“ And you promise to look after him ? ” 
The rector carried but one thought at a time. 

“ Look after him, Mr. Armstrong ? why, 
I shall adopt him.” The song had found 
its home. 

“ Of course you will,” he exclaimed, spring- 
ing up and pacing the room. “ What did I 
tell you, old fellow ? ” shaking his friend by 
the shoulder ; “ she ’s going to adopt you ! 
You ’re provided for.” 


218 RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 

“And you,” I asked, when both were 
quiet again, — “ you are off in the morning, 
Mr. Armstrong?” 

“ By the first train.” 

“ Perfect time of the year for the moun- 
tains,” I said, with the effect of a new 
thought. “ Shall you be away all Septem- 
ber?” 

“ That depends ; that is, I am not sure,” 
— guardedly. 

“ How pleasant for you that Miss Ethel 
should be there at this time ! Her aunt has 
a place near the Mountain House, I be- 
lieve.” 

“ Her sister,” he said, coloring a little. 

“ Oh ! her sister, is it ? I thought it was 
her aunt.” Nobody spoke for a breath or 
two, and then I went on quietly : “ I heard 
to-day that Miss Ethel is not coming back 
to Craddock ; do you know anything about 
it ? I’m awfully fond of that little girl.” 

The man hesitated, flushing all over his 
handsome face. “Not to the school, I be- 
lieve,” he answered. 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 219 

“ Oil ! Then she is coming hack. With 
you ?” I asked, at a venture. 

“ I hope so,” — unsteadily ; “ I trust so ” 
— and I read the rest in his honest eyes. 

“ No ! ” I cried, and held out both hands. 
“ No ! — you don’t mean it ? Ah ! how glad 
I am, — how very, very glad ! ” 

“ I thought — I thought — you would be,” 
he stammered. “ Her last word when we 
parted was this message to you.” As if he 
had told me anything ! 

“ Dear child, — dear Ethel ! how sweet 
and good of her ! Do you know, Mr. Arm- 
strong, this thing has been the dear wish 
of my heart all summer. Oh, how happy 
you are ! How happy you are going to 
be!” 

u Yes,” he said slowly, controlling his 
voice. “ Yes, 1 believe — I shall be. I 
want to thank you for your words — your 
good words, my friend ; you have always 
been my friend ” — 

“And Ethel’s. You may tell her so, if 
you please. And tell her that my special 


220 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


message to her is — no, I ’ll write it — I ’ll 
write her a love-letter.” 

“ Do, — pray do ; nothing will delight her 
half so much ; hut you will see us again.” 

“ No, I think not. Robin’s school opens 
the twenty-eighth. Cruel, is n’t it, to lose a 
single day of this September weather ? ” 

I spoke airily and looked the other way, 
to give him time to get his face in order. 

“ And don’t give your work here another 
thought. Mr. Tricoupis and I are going to 
have some interesting evenings together, 
are n’t we ? ” turning to my new friend. 
“ Mr. Tricoupis is coming to tea every 
Friday night. I ’ve adopted him, you 
know ! ” 


Keziah dotes on preachers. She has that 
comfortable old orthodox belief in their con- 
stitutional and ineradicable holiness, whatso- 
ever their sect or persuasion. She is also of 
opinion that their growth in grace is might- 
ily helped along by a plentiful allowance 
of good things ; so these “ preacher’s tea-par- 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 221 

ties,” as she calls them, are composed with 
“ prayer and meditation ; ” she gives her 
pious soul to them. 

“ Get some soft crabs of Ryle, if you hap- 
pen to see him, Keziah,” I suggest ; “ and 
you can have a Russian salad as well as not, 
— there are enough peas and beans left over 
from dinner for a nice little dish.” 

“ Go ’way fum me, Mis’ M’riar ; you 
sholy ain’t gwine to ’stonish dat new preach- 
er’s stummik wid no sich a mess.” 

“ And put two eggs in the mayonnaise,” I 
say firmly, “ and leave the salad on the ice 
till the very last minute.” 

“ Ain’t a drap o’ sweet ile on de land ! ” 
this with grim satisfaction. 

“ Nathan is to bring a bottle from the 
village,” I say, shutting the kitchen door. 
By which stratagem I get the last word ; I 
wish I were as sure of my salad ! 

“ Cold wittles fur de Lawd’s ’n’inted,” I 
hear her mutter through the closed door, 
“ an’ punish dat blessed preacher’s insides 
wid sof’ crabs ! No, no, honey ; yer don’t 


222 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


cotch Keziah wid no sicli fool-contraptions. 
No meats fur repentance cooked in dis ’ere 
kitchen, praise de Lawd.” 

Keziah ’s reflections are edifying but not 
soothing, for I am expecting Mr. Tricoupis 
to tea, and feel anxious about my supper. I 
go outside to look at the thunder-heads that 
are rearing and careering in the highway of 
the heavens. Unless something else hap- 
pens, we shall have weather before sun- 
down ; I can smell it coming. 

Keziah calls out to Nathan, who has just 
driven 4 up with letters and parcels, to “git 
them tomaytuses an’ pusley terectly, fur 
it ’ll bust out a-rainin’ afore ye know yer- 
self.” 

“ Time ’nough,” drawls the man ; “ them ’s 
on’y wind clouds,” — shutting one eye and 
turning the other to leeward of the storm. 
Nathan is radically opposed to doing any- 
thing “ terectly.” 

“ Don’t take Fetch out of harness,” I say. 
“ I ’ll drive over myself for Mr. Tricoupis, 
and save him a wetting. Run, Robin, and 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 223 

bring mamma her mackintosh ; it ’s hanging 
in the linen closet. No, it is n’t either ; 
you ’ll find it on a peg behind the clock, or 
may be I left it in my — I declare I don’t 
know where I left it, — ask Mary. And my 
old umbrella, — that ’s a darling.” 

What a race it is with the rain ! Fetch 
will never know why I whipped him so, poor 
fellow ! 

The rectory is but a short mile from Ingle- 
side. I find my new friend, his brows a 
fretwork of wrinkles, shut in his study, all 
unconscious of the gathering storm ; the 
table littered with text-books and lexicons. 
I hail him through the open window. 

“I ’ve come for you, Mr. Tricoupis. 
Look at that sky ! Not a second to lose, — 
hurry ! there ’s the first drop.” 

He slips his precious sermon into its black 
satin cover and jumps into the wagon bare- 
headed. 

“ Had n’t you better take your hat ? ” I 
hint politely. 

“ Here it is, dear ; I ’ll throw it down,” 


224 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


cooes a voice above us ; and a girlish face 
and figure appear at an upper window. 
“ Here goes — catch ! ” and a silvery laugh 
comes floating down with the shapeless 
thing. A second glance reveals a baby ! 

“ Up-a-daisy ! Shake a day-day to papa, 
my b’essed ! See ! ” dancing it in her arms, 
“ See ! she ’s kissing her hand to you, Paul ; 
and she was her own papa’s b’essed bootiful 
baby, so she was ! ” 

“ Your baby ? ” I ask ; “ yours ? ” and 
say no more. The child-mother at the win- 
dow, and this beardless youth beside me ! I 
am struck with what Barnes Newcome calls 
“ respectful astonishment.” 

“ I shall call upon Mrs. Tricoupis to- 
morrow,” I remark when I recover breath. 
“Will you kindly put up the umbrella ? ” 

Keziah has been as bad as her word. No 
soft crabs for tea, and — oh, my prophetic 
soul ! — no Russian salad. Of what avail 
that I am boiling internally, if I do not boil 
over and hurt somebody, — a thing that I 
am morally certain not to do ; I have such 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 225 

a ridiculous way of simmering down after 
I have taken my place at this tea-table. 

No Russian salad is upon it to magnify its 
charms ; but even without that indigestible, 
our little banquet could be a Russian feast, 
and not dishonor that nation ! Keziah ’s 
“ biscakes ” are not to be beaten — by any 
one but Keziah ; her “ blue-monge ” is an 
epic poem, a delicious harmony ; and as to 
her bobinet cookies, they keep up a run- 
ning accompaniment to all the rest. 

Our supper ended, a lightwood knot or 
two and a handful of cones wake up to the 
conviviality of the hour, and proceed to 
crack old jokes among themselves and ex- 
change the compliments of the season. The 
% 

rain has not slackened ; the night is turning 
chill. Our student lamp that elects to shine 
upon the writing-table brightens up and was 
never in better humor ; we draw up close to 
it and fall to work. 

To work ! Oh, the moral of it, — the 
satire, the irony ! That a paltry creature, 
whose happiest inspiration has been known 


226 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


to come through the medium of a calico 
frock and lavender ribbons, should be per- 
mitted to handle things ecclesiastic and 
supernal ! 

Keziah looks in upon us, her arms full 
of lightwood. Her drowsing conscience is 
wakening. 

“ On’y look at dat sassy little fire,” she 
whispers, “ a-laffin’ fit to kill itself ! Yer 
sarvant, sir,” — dropping to the young 
preacher as low a courtesy as her circumfer- 
ence will allow. 

“We don’t wish anymore wood, Keziah,” 
I say chillingly ; “we have a great plenty.” 
It will take more than lightwood knots of a 
September evening to atone to me for her 
crimes. “ Let ’s turn that sentence the other 
way, Mr. Tricoupis ; how will this do ? ” 

“ I ’ve turned it and turned it until I 
am dizzy already,” mourns the poor fellow. 
“ Cut it out, madame ; ‘ When in doubt, cut 
it out,’ saith the sage.” 

“ Cut it out indeed ! Not a bit of it, we ’ll 
turn it around ; listen to this, now.” 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 227 

Keziah considers herself dismissed and 
departs in high dudgeon. I devote my few 
wits to the doomed knots in the sermon ; 
tugging away at them until they are all 
picked out and in beautiful order. By ten 
o’clock the formidable sermon is back in its 
cover ready for Sunday, and its author is 
pouring out his grateful soul in three live 
languages and one dead one, while I protest 
in a ragged sort of way. Such extrava- 
gances are embarrassing to one of my sim- 
ple education. 

We open the upper half of the Dutch 
door and peer out. “ Stupendous ! ” I say, 
for lack of a stronger word. “ It rains, it 
do, and it rains wet ; and the wind, it blows. 
Good gracious ! ” 

The young man gives me a puzzled look, 
hesitates, laughs abruptly, and says some- 
thing to himself, in perhaps — Arabic. 

“ Dark as pitch,” I run on, — “ yea, 
darker. And that lonesome little wife in 
a panic, and the brand new baby ! Wait a 
second, I ’ll call Nathan.” But that mortal 
is not easily found. 


228 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


I open the kitchen door to look for him. 
The room is in what Robin calls “spandy 
order.” The bracket lamp burns cheerily ; 
the red table-cover is out in all its bravery ; 
Keziah has a lighted candle on her lap for 
the greater convenience of burning off ends 
when she threads her needle ; both women 
are bending over it darning stockings. 

“ Where ’s Nathan ? ” I ask. 

“ Nathan? Why, Ryle ’s home,” her sable 
highness answers, “ so, in co’se, I ain’t sor a 
hoof or horn o’ Nathan since he eat his 
supper.” 

“ Indeed! Well, light the lantern, Mary, 
and please be quick about it ; Mr. Tricoupis 
is just going.” 

“ Lantern ’s away in the barn,” murmurs 
Mary, rising and laying down her work. 

“ An’ dat ’s jest whar ’t ain't,” retorts the 
other ; “ Fitz-Jinkins’s coachman borryed it 
a-yistiddy.” 

“ And the oilskins too, no doubt,” I add, 
with rising irritation. 

“ Nathan tuk an’ brung his ileskins ’long 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR'S. 229 

wid him to Ryle’s, he did ; an’ he fotehed 
de big brumberill too, — I sor him.” 

“ Bless Nathan ! ” I say fervently, but my 
thoughts are intent upon the risks for the 
clerical cloth that is fluttering about the 
Dutch door, — the clerical cloth that must 
be the wearer’s all. 

“We’re all right,” I say, running back 
to my visitor with my old gray cloak — that 
old campaigner — and proceeding to envelop 
him in its ample folds. “ Fits you to a — 
Stop ! I ’ll button you in, far as they go, 
and skewer the rest of you with safety-pins, 

— get me some big ones, Mary.” It is a 
woman’s affair, beyond peradventure, with 
its pointed hood, silk linings, cords and tas- 
sels, and flirting fringes. 

“ There ! ” — with a gush of satisfaction, 

— “ you ’ll do ; now away with melan- 
choly!” And so, with the reverend trou- 
sers rolled up high, and my effeminate um- 
brella in both hands, the back door is held 
open by main force till our guest has banged 
himself out. I tarry for a moment to make 


230 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


sure he is heading for home, then, with a 
sigh of relief, open the scrap of a piano, and 
with one of my Schumann delights before me, 
am quickly absorbed in its subtle harmonies. 
As my nerves recover tone, I turn the leaves 
and come upon a difficult scherzo ; the very 
thing ! I pound away at it for an hour or 
more, and have nearly conquered it, when 
. . . “ Mercy ! what on the face of the 
earth?” . . . 

The back door springs open, and a miscel- 
lany of bedraggled fringes, linsey-woolsey, 
eccentric cords and tassels, and number 
eleven Oxford ties comes plunging into my 
sanctum, — dives in as from off a spring- 
board. The miscellany is as wet as if it 
had been down to the bottom of the sea. It 
has a voice withal which, if the voice be 
truly the organ of the soul, knows now no 
stops. The miscellany is shaking and groan- 
ing : hat gone, umbrella gone, — my Eng- 
lish umbrella, if you please, — his spectacles 
gone, without which he was bat-blind. 

He is sputtering in a polyglot of good 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR’S. 231 

French, what may be Arabic, and broken 
English, with frenzied adjurations to the 
servants, who crowd the door, to “ Good 
Lord, deliver us ! ” 

“ Au secours { ” he cries, “ save me ! I ’m 
a lost man ! Mashallah ! . . . I ’ve been 
in the river, — au fond ! Gare, gare ! Think 
you I am wet ? Wussukh ? ” 

“ I do indeed, Mr. Tricoupis ; I think you 
are very wet ” — 

u It is in the cornfield that I wander, — 
f ehemt ? . . . O fools and blind — insensees 
— aveugles ! Is it the merciful Lord leads 
me ? No, it is the devil — le diable — Is- 
taghfirallah ! ” 

He is floundering about the room as if it 
were the slough of despond ; I did n’t know 
one old gray cloak could hold so much 
water. 

“ Let me help you,” I say with careful 
gravity ; “ these pins are apt to be tricky ; ” 
but he waves me away. 

“ It is that I am dragged into the river 
. . . my glasses are gone — perdu I Mes 


282 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE . 


lunettes ! . . . Que faire ? ” wheeling round 
and glaring at me with the unseeing eyes of 
a shortsighted person. 

“ I could not get out — waheyat en-nebi ! 

. . . The water came creep-ing, crawl-ing, 
guggle - uggling,” — his teeth rattling like 
dice in a box ; “up it comes — O mers 
et flots ! . . . Down, down I go — W allah ! 
into the pit — le puit epouvantable, . . . 
and the clay that is, what you call ? — 
fangeux — wussukh ! . . . Down I go, with 
this fearsome thing throttling me. . . . 
Bah I ” tugging wildly at the buttons, whose 
integrity is affirmed by number six shoe- 
thread ; I knew all about it, for I sewed 
them on myself. 

Suddenly he stops and faces me. 

“ Hola ! Ukaf ! a light I see, un feu fol- 
let, . . . but afar off ! bien loin ! . . . Is 
that the light of home, cette lumiere ! — 
think you I have been home ? Moi ! ” , . . 
whirling about with such violence as to come 
in collision with my dear work-basket, which 
he sends spinning into the fire. “ Dites ! — 


A FRIEND OF THE RECTOR’S. 233 

say ; do you think I have been home ? do 
you?” ... 

“ I do not, indeed, Mr. Tricoupis,” — 
catching my breath, and backing up against 
the door. 

“ I ’ve wandered hours and hours, — a 
lost man, moi, till I see the light. Aha ! a 
light ! but it is miles away — plus de cent 
lieues. . . . Mashallah ! It makes itself your 
light, sham’a ! . . . yours ! ” 

“Of course it was mine,” I say sooth- 
ingly, with my hand on the knob. 

“Waddini guwwa ! take me in ! I go 
forth not at all no more this night. . . . 
Send tidings to my dearest wife that I yet 
live — voila ! ” Then, with a wail, “ Oh, 
get me to bed, and make me dry,” he col- 
lapses into a shapeless heap on the lounge ! 
a Monday’s wash in soak over night. 

I flee to the kitchen and look not behind 
me ! I shut the door and sit down. I prom- 
ise the women boiling oil, scalding water, or 
whatever they prefer, if they utter one sound. 
I send for Nathan, who sneaked off to bed 


234 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


an hour ago. I tell him to get his weather- 
coat and light the lantern. I return to the 
wet mass of misery, which by this time is 
stuck fast to the chintz-covered divan. 

I call his name. I explain to him his 
wife’s sufferings, the cruelty of a moment’s 
delay, the importance of his immediate de- 
parture ; giving him my plighted troth that 
it is a quarter to twelve by the Dutch clock, 
and no later. I bring in Nathan, armed and 
equipped. I get the miscellany upon its 
trembling legs once more, and once more out 
into the storm. 

Then I chain, bolt, and double bar the 
door behind him. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 

“ Faix, mum, here ’s Dr. Pestle ! He ’s 
got the b’ys in the booggy wud him, an’ it ’s 
Andy that ’s dhrivin’ — God help him ! ” 

Mary is on her knees washing the piazza ; 
her voice rings out in tune with this crisp 
September morning. I come out to her, and 
see a pleasant sight. 

Nestled down between the giant Robin 
and our good doctor is Andy. The reins 
are wound round and round his poor little 
wrists and hands. In poetic justice to the 
little fellow, it is Robin who holds the use- 
less ends of the reins this time, for Andy is 
really driving. The doctor’s horse, Dobbin, 
was let into the secret of this joke and put 
on his honor before the party left the Home. 
He carries himself with unusual spirit, and 
trots along beautifully. y 


236 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

The carriage whirls round the front circle 
in gallant style. Goodness ! how the horse 
does pull ! “ Whoa, Dobbin ! ” pipes a 

small voice ; “ whoa, sir ! ” The horse drops 
one ear and then the other to make sure he 
heard something, and stops short. “ My ! 
what a horse this is to drive ! ” says Andy. 

“ Horse ? ” says his owner, getting out ; 
“ you ’re right, my boy, — he is a horse, is 
Dobbin. What that nag of mine does n’t 
know,” — twisting the reins loosely about the 
whip, — Dobbin is on his honor, you remem- 
ber, — “ what that nag of mine does n’t 
know is n’t worth mentioning. Whoa, Dob- 
bin ; whoa, boy ! ” Which admonition is 
superfluous : Dobbin stands like a bronze 
statue of himself. 

With the crutch under one arm and the 
little cripple sitting easily on the other, the 
dear old doctor marches into the house. 

“ Here, ma’am ! here ’s a present for you. 
Where ’ll you have it ? ” 

“ Right here, doctor ; drop it down,” I 
say, moving out a particularly comforta- 


SEPTEMBER .SKIES. 


237 


ble armchair and beating up the pillows. 
“Andy, tell Dr. Pestolido we expect him 
back to dine with us at half-past one ; tell 
him this is to be Andy’s last party at In- 
gleside.” 

The boy lifts his face in mute appeal to 
his friend, who stoops and whispers some- 
thing for Andy’s ear alone. Whatever the 
words, the lad is quite satisfied. 

“ You ’ll dine with us to-day, doctor ? ” I 
say, following him out to his carriage. “ It 
is our last day at Ingleside, you know ; be- 
sides, we need you to carve for us.” 

“ And Andy to ask the blessing,” he says, 
gathering up the reins. “ I ’ll be glad to 
come. Get up, Dobbin ! ” 

Mary watches him drive away, then picks 
up her pail and scrub-brushes, straightens 
the door-mat with her ample foot, and pauses 
at the open window for a word with the lit- 
tle hunchback. 

“ Where ’s Keziah ? ” I ask. 

“Forninst the wash-house, mum. She’s 
doing the flannins.” 


238 


RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 


“ Oh, is she ? I want to speak to her.” 

I find the old woman bending over the 
tubs, and up to her elbows in steaming soap- 
suds. As usual, she has company. 

“ Good morning, uncle Lazarus,” I say ; 
“ how ’s the rheumatism ? ” 

“ On’y tol’ble, thank de Lawd ; how ’s de 
missus, dis nice mawnin’ ? ” 

“ Oh, I ’m always well, uncle Lazarus ; 
how ’s aimt Caroline ? ” 

“ She don’t feel no great dese days, Car’- 
line don’t ; she ’s right po’ly.” 

“ Why, that ’s too bad, uncle ; and you ’ve 
come all this distance to bid us good-by ? ” 
The old man scrapes his foot upon the 
ground and makes me a lowly reverence. 

“ De Lawd o’ mussy bless yo’, missus, for 
dat bundle yo’ sent. Ole Laz’rus Driggus 
neber forgit yo’ long ’s he libs for thinkin’ 
ob a pore, hard workin’ cullard man like 
me ! May de Lawd prosper ye an’ all dat 
b’longs to ye in dis worl’, an’ in de nex’ to 
come.” With which benediction the old 
man leaves me, and shuffles away in quest 
of Robin. 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


239 


At one end of the long wash -bench 
slouches Koyal Ryerson : fisherman, land- 
lord, autocrat of Craddock ; he ducks his 
head to me. 

“ Nice mornin’, mum, arter the rain ; 
how ’s all the fambly ? ” 

“ Robin ’s well, thank you. This is our 
last day on the South Side, Mr. Ryerson.” 

“ So I hearn tell. Hope ye like us well 
’nough to come back ’nother year. Folks is 
a-goin’ to miss ye cornsid’able in these parts, 
ef I do say it myself.” 

Which admission I am fain to accept as 
applying particularly to himself. 

“ Ef ye calc’late to try it agin, ye can 
have the place same terms ez before — ‘ lock, 
stock, an’ bar’l,’ ez Mr. Trigger says,” — 
this with a half laugh. 

“ I ’m much obliged to you, I ’m sure,” I 
rejoin. “We are very much attached to 
Ingleside ” — 

“Ryle’s Ketch,” says its owner, wag- 
ging his head shrewdly. 

“ * Ryle’s Ketch,’ then, — and I have to 


240 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


thank you for your share in our comfort 
here. You have been fair and square with 
us ; and very kind,” I add, after a mental 
search for a better word. 

Royal Ryerson gets up on his feet and 
makes a stride forward. 

“ Fa’r an’ squar’ — that ’s the ticket ! fa’r 
an’ squar’ ! You ’re a lady, an’ don’t ye 
forgit it ; I ’d admire to make bold to shake 
ye by the hand, mum,” extending his own ; 
“ no offense, I hope. An’ 1 ’ll say, right 
here, that if you takes a notion to come 
down to Ryle’s Ketch along in the winter 
with that leetle shaver o’ yourn for a day or 
so, — or two or three, fix it ter suit yerselves, 
— ye ’re welcome. I ’ll build ye up a fire 
in the keepin’-room — reg’lar old roarer ! 
an’ I ain’t a-goin’ ter charge ye nawthin’ for 
it nex’ time — that ’s gospel.” 

With which oration he pulls off his hat, 
ducks his grizzled head to me once more, and 
saunters off to his cabin. 

Keziah’s face is a study during the inter- 
view. “ 4 Fa’r an’ squar* ! ’ ” she mutters, 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


241 


“ ‘ fa’r an’ squar’,’ — hull ! ” She stoops 
over the gypsy pot that hangs upon its 
crotch, and ladles out hot water: not for 
Ryle, — he has gone down the path to his 
cabin, — but into her second washtub. 

“ Nobody in the world can wash flannels 
but you, Keziah,” I say pacifically. “We 
have very particular company to-day, — 
Andy is here for dinner.” 

Her black face lights up. “Lord love 
dat li’l cripple boy,” she says softly.' 

“ What nice little thing can you cook for 
him ? You ’re busy, I see, — I ’m sorry it 
happened so, — but it ’s Andy’s last day 
here, Keziah ; I know you won’t mind.” 

“ Mind ! Who ’s a-mindin’ ? Shuh ! I ’s 
gwine to gib dese ’ere flannins one more 
renchin’ in b’ilin’ water, an’ den I ’s done. 
I done got suthin’ in my head ” — rolling it 
about as if she heard it rattle — “ I ’m 
a-fixin’ to cook for dat li’l chile.” Which 
speech I take as idiomatic and make no 
comment. 

^ “Ice-cream would be a treat to him,” I 


242 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

remark tentatively ; “ Nathan has lots of 
time to freeze it.” 

“ Who ’s dat cornin’ down de back road, 
— look a’ yonder ! ” she exclaims. Keziah is 
opposed to committing herself. 

“ It ’s Maggy’s sister,” I say. 

“ Dat gal ’s pearted up powerful, Mis’ 
M’riar. De Lawd o’ mussy knows she was 
skinny ’nough when she fust come ; warn’t 
she a show ? Grandaddy ! ” 

“ Poor thing ! yes.” 

“ Good honest wittles goes a great ways,” 
— this sententiously. 

“ Indeed they do, Keziah \ Andy will 
like vanilla flavoring in the ice-cream, I 
think.” With which hint I leave her. 

I hasten to meet the girl at the gate, — 
the gate that is scored with marks of angels 
(they could not have been tramps I) that we 
have entertained unawares. 

“ You dear child ! ” I call out to her. 
“ You have come the right day, — our last, 
you know. You ’ll stay to dinner, — Andy 
is here.” 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 243 

“ Oh, indeed, ma’am, I ’d love to stay, 
but what will sister Angelica say ? ” 

I put her hand — not the withered one — 
within my arm and move toward the house. 
“ Sister Angelica always agrees with me, 
and so must you. Why, child, how rosy you 
are ! What a great, round girl you are 
grown to be ! ” 

She laughs, and smooths her poor dress 
in places. “ Ain’t I, though, and ain’t 
Maggy ? I never thought when I come 
down for my two weeks off it would spin 
out to all summer.” 

“ Your father won’t know you when he 
sees you.” 

“ No more he won’t, ma’am ; but I never 
see sich a change in nobody as my little 
sister Maggy ; she ’s fleshed up right smart, 
since she come to the Home,” — with a ques- 
tioning note in her voice, — “ and 4 hongry ’ 
ain’t no name for it.” 

“That is a dear little sister of yours,” 
I say encouragingly. “Let us stay out 
here under the willows for a while ; you ’d 


244 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


better draw your shawl about you, it ’s 
fresh this morning. So the Home closes 
Tuesday.’ , 

“ Yes ’m, an’ I go back to my work nex’ 
day. The boss has kep’ my place open 
for me all this time ; I think he ’s dretful 
kind.” 

We sit facing the bay. The salt winds 
are sifting their pungent odors to us from 
afar ; they come softly and fitfully, like 
harmonies from an HColian harp. In the 
middle distance are the telegraph wires. A 
congress of birds is assembled upon them 
to discuss ways and means, and appoint a 
time for their home-flitting. Yes, the sum- 
mer is surely ended. 

We abandon ourselves to the delicious 
idleness of the hour. “ See those clouds,” I 
say, — “ how rapidly they are changing ; 
and see their drifting shadows down the 
lane ! ” 

“Yes ’m,” she answers, but she is not 
thinking of the shadows. When she speaks 
again it is in an altered tone. 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


245 


“ I can’t think, ma’am,” she says, “ who 
could ha’ paid my hoard here all these weeks 
and weeks ; must be the same one that got 
my little sister Maggy into the Home along 
o’ me. I could n’t ha’ stayed on, o’ course, if 
Maggy had n’t come. Sister Angelica says 
it’s a kind lady. She must be a norful 
rich lady, and dretful lovin’ hearted to pore 
folks.” 

“ One of the Goldbarrs, may be,” I sug- 
gest. 

“No’m, ’t ain’t Mis’ Goldbarr, nor Mis’ 
Ingot neither ; sister Angelica says ’t ain’t 
ne’er a one of ’em.” 

“ Is n’t it ? ” I say quietly. 

The girl looks at me earnestly, hesitates, 
and continues, — 

“ I wish ’t I knowed her real name, I do ; 
we want to thank her, me and Maggy does, 
for all her goodness to us.” 

I bend my head to her ear. 

“Oh! ” she cries ; “you don’t never mean 
to say ’t was aunt Dorothy, — the sweet- 
faced old lady that lives at Moratika, — 


246 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


that you took me to see the fust time you 
driv me out in your kerridge ! ” . . . 

Her crippled hand stirs in her lap. She 
lays it on mine with a movement that is 
unspeakably eloquent. 

And so we rest for a while, silent and 
thoughtful. I watch her upturned face as I 
watched it weeks, nay, months ago. No 
shadow of death is there now to prove the 
misery of her young life. *The shadows 
have lifted, are gone ; and in their stead 
have come the hues of life, of hope, of 
youth! Her very voice, one time so faint 
and tuneless, rings out now in joyous strain. 

“ See ! ” she says, pointing up the lane ; 
“ it ’s the doctor — Dr. Pestle ; he ’s got 
somebody in the waggin with him.” 

“ It ’s aunt Dorothy ! ” shouts Robin, 
running out to us. 

“ You magnificent doctor ! ” I say, as 
I come over the grass and meet them at 
the horseblock ; “and of all things, aunt 
Dorothy ! ” 

The doctor offers his hand to assist the 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


247 


little lady to alight. He does this with the 
deference of an old courtier ; she makes 
him a quaint courtesy and turns to me. 

“ My dear,” she says, taking my hand in 
both of hers very tenderly, — “ my dear, Dr. 
Pestolido is always good to me. My heart 
was fixed on Ingleside to-day, — I could not 
let you leave Craddock without bidding you 
and yours farewell and Godspeed. Why, 
bless his heart, here ’s Andy ! ” 

The boy has followed Robin to the door, 
and is waiting timidly for some word of 
greeting. Aunt Dorothy takes the wan 
face between her hands, and turns it to the 
light, regarding it wistfully. In truth it is 
but a transparency, through which to see his 
pure spirit ; only a mist of vapor that shall 
vanish from mortal sight, alas, so soon ! 

Her eyes that seek the doctor’s in silent 
entreaty are full of tears. His answer is 
a scarcely perceptible gesture, — a glance 
above and beyond these September skies 
that shall never live again for Andy. 

“ God bless my bonny boy,” she says, 


248 RYLE’S OPEN GATE. 

sitting down suddenly, taking the little crip- 
ple in her arms, and smoothing gently his 
crumpled hands ; “ poor baby ! ” 

“ Andy ’s a man ! ” I say briskly. “We 
are all coming back to Craddock next sum- 
mer, — specially Andy.” The little lad 
regards me attentively, and seems to be 
measuring my words. “ And as to Maggy’s 
big sister here, — why, look at her cheeks ! 
Where are you, child ? ” 

The girl makes a step nearer. 

“ Maggy said ’t was you, ma’am,” she 
falters, — “ Maggy said it over and over 
ag’in — ever since she seed you that fust 
day you come to the Home — and sister 
Angelica would n’t tell us, and — and ” — 
The tears are brimming over. 

Aunt Dorothy’s only reply is to lean for- 
ward and kiss the girl’s forehead. Then 
with a reproving look at me for my breach 
of confidence, turns to me, and in a hushed 
voice : — 

“ There will be no more summers for 
Andy, — not here ! I don’t know why this 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


249 


should grieve me so. What a poor creature 
am I to say ‘ poor Andy,’ when he shall have 
entered into the Eternal Summer forever ! ” 

“ No, no, aunt Dorothy,” I plead, touch- 
ing her shoulder, “ indeed you are mistaken. 
Only see how stoutly he clings to the doc- 
tor’s neck.” The doctor has picked up the 
little fellow while we are talking, and is 
playing horse with him over the flower beds, 
— a staid and sober horse this time. 

Aunt Dorothy’s eyes follow mine; she 
shakes her head. 

“ He has not been so well lately,” I begin 
again, “ but the weather has been against 
him” — 

“ That ’s jus’ what ’t is,” cries the girl, 
“ it ’s the weather ; rained stiddy for a 
week, it did.” 

“The equinoctial always comes as chief 
mourner when summer dies,” I remark par- 
enthetically ; “ this year it made a great 
to-do ; but just you wait and see what the 
racy, bracy, October weather will do for 
Andy ! ” 


250 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


“ The dear Lord send it ! ” she answers 
quickly ; then bows her head reverently and 
is still. After some musing she says with 
the old happy chime in her voice that we 
have come to love so well : — 

“Do you know he is coming to me for 
what little time remains to him ? The good 
Sisters part from him with reluctance ; but 
Dr. Pestolido convinced them my house is 
the place for Andy now.” 

She makes this statement quite unaffect- 
edly, — the obligation is all on her side ! 

“ To care for him, to tend him these his 
last days on earth, will be a solace to me. 
His presence will be such a blessing in my 
poor home as it scarce may hold.” 

The dinner is a simple one. Spite of the 
“ flannins,” Keziah has achieved a dish for 
Andy that is not only private but strictly 
confidential ; for it is covered up in a little 
soup-tureen that nobody could suspect of 
ever having been a gravy boat ! 

“ That ’s all for you, my son,” I say, 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


251 


smiling at his puzzled look ; 44 the doctor 
can’t have so much as a whiff of it ; see 
what it is.” 

“ Oysters ! ” he chirps, lifting the lid very 
carefully with one frail little claw, and peep- 
ing in, — 44 they ’re oysters. And baby 
crabs ! what winkie-wees ! ” 

The doctor thinks 44 it is rather hard on 
an old fellow who is perfectly devoted to 
September oysters and has n’t seen so much 
as the back of one for a year.” He “ would 
like to look that big one affectionately in 
the eye ! ” This with a covert glance at his 
little friend. 

44 Don’t you do it, Andy, don’t trust him,” 
cries Robin, delightedly ; 44 they ’re every 
one yours ; and Ryle sent the tiny crabs as 
a present too.” 

Our dinner party is held in the same dear 
home-room, in full view of the andirons that 
are bright as gold, but not nearly so bright 
as the blaze from hickory, cone, and light- 
wood. Brooding over the blaze is the same 
old crone of a crane with her chatelaine of 


252 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


pothooks and hangers ; has she not been 
the presiding genius of this ingle-side ? The 
writing-table is in its old place by the other 
window, but bereft of all that made it so 
beguiling. An odd lot of magazines and 
picture-papers to go to the lighthouse-keeper 
on the Point ; a ball of twine ; the ink-bot- 
tle, — only these ! The little old maid of a 
piano has her head in curl-papers and her 
slumber - robe on — an old ragged quilt — 
against her next awakening. The key — 
will it never open up to us again her dreams 
and fancies? — is where it should be this 
time, — in the lock. The old Dutch clock 
behind the stairs ticks faintly ; there is a 
trace of sadness in its husky tones. It seems 
to tell us how soon — how soon its trembling 
hands, lacking their wonted care, may lie 
clasped and still. In vain do I offer it the 
consolations of the crickets and the resident 
ghost. Their lease has not yet expired. 

Did we say the dinner was a simple one ? 
We quite forgot the pyramid of ice-cream 
which appeared in due form and in what 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


253 


might be called the height of the fashion. 
I need not have given the thing another 
thought ; Keziah can be depended on when 
Andy is host. 

We move our chairs out under the low 
spreading chestnut. Aunt Dorothy takes 
her knitting from the old-time-y reticule, — 
a part of her quaint dress, and which she 
likes to carry with her on such festive occa- 
sions, — pins the knitting-sheath to her side, 
and fitting the needle into the quill, draws 
closer to Maggy’s sister. 

“ It will be hard for you,” she says kindly, 
“ to leave this lovely place ; I shall miss 
you both.” 

“ Yes ’m ; it ’ll be hard, of course, fust 
off. But then there ’s father ; he ’s made 
out bad enough without me all summer, I 
doubt.” 

“No doubt he has,” the old lady says 
dryly. 

“ But what I mind most is for Maggy, — 
it ’ll come hardest on Maggy. Sometimes, 
ma’am, she don’t seem to have the right look 


254 


RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 


in her face — peak-ed or scairt-like — I do’ 
know how to say it ; Andy ’s got that same 
look,” — this in a whisper. 

“ That little sister of yours is coming out 
all right, my child. Just think what a 
clean, decent place you ’re going to ; you 
can thank the Sisters for that. And to live 
with that nice old lady, too ; that ’s a great 
lift.” 

“ Indeed, ma’am, and don’t I know it ! ” 

“ Then that little feather - bed ! Only 
think how those country feathers are going 
to ease her poor back ! You must write me 
a letter when you ’re all fixed, and tell me 
everything about it.” 

“Why, yes,” chimes in the doctor from 
his place beside the little hunchback ; “ Andy 
and I must hear that letter.” 

The little fellow is propped up in a big 
chair with many soft pillows ; Robin has 
put a small table before him and seated 
himself opposite ; all three are busy pasting 
foreign stamps in Robin’s scrapbook. 

“ Dr. Pestle gave ’em to me,” Robin says 


SEPTEMBER SKIES. 


255 


in answer to my inquiring look, — “ gave me 
all he had ; — there ’s some awful hard ones 
among ’em.” 

“ Hard ones ? ” I query. 

“ I did n’t know Robin was collecting 
foreign stamps,” interposes the doctor ; 
“ they ’re of no earthly use to me ; I wish I 
had known before.” 

And so we while away our last afternoon 
at Ingleside, — Ingleside, that must be to 
us so soon but a tender memory ! 

Later, Nathan brings old Dobbin to the 
door. Aunt Dorothy puts up her lmitting- 
work, not forgetting the sheath, and ties her 
bonnet-strings. When she is seated in the 
doctor’s carriage and the little hunchback 
has been made comfortable on her lap (for he 
is to be left at the Home on their way back 
to Moratika), the old doctor steps in too. 
Keziah, in her brand-new bandanna, and 
tender-hearted Mary with her apron to her 
eyes, are standing at the kitchen door for a 
last look at Andy. Even Ryle Ryerson — 
rough - wrought savage that he is — stops 


256 RYLE'S OPEN GATE. 

halfway to the creek, pulls off his rag of a 
hat, and is swinging it about his head. 

The setting sun is pouring a flood of 
splendor down the highway, like that other 
road of glory which the lad is so soon to 
know. The radiance is about him and 
around him. He is waving gayly from the 
back of the carriage his little stump of a 
crutch, — is it not the symbol of his poor, 
pitiful life ? Presently a bend in the road 
shuts him from our eyes. 

“ De Lawd A’mighty bless dat li’l angel 
boy ! ” breathes a simple heart behind me. 
“ He ’s gwine up to glory, Mis’ M’riar, — 
he ’s mos’ in de Kingdom ! ” 











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